


BONES OF BLACK MARROW

by oxfordRoulette



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Choose Your Own Adventure, Consensual Somnophilia, Dream Sex, Edging, Eventual Happy Ending, Experimental, Horror, Humor, Light Bondage, M/M, Minor Violence, Mutual Masturbation, Optional Body Horror, Optional Gore, Poetry, Porn With Plot, Porn with Fear, Quantum Mechanics, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Seizures, Selfcest, Shower Sex, Sleep Paralysis, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-05-08 11:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 82
Words: 124,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxfordRoulette/pseuds/oxfordRoulette
Summary: Dirk summons a demon for the exclusive purpose of 'cathartic boning.' He gets what he wants.NOTE: This fic is ergodic (think House of Leaves), which means it cannot be downloaded for offline perusal on your kindle/pdf reader. Also has CYOA elements, so clicking “Entire Work” will make the fic impossible to read.





	1. FOLLOWED

**Author's Note:**

> Some fyis:  
> -If you’re reading on mobile, note that this fic was made with wider screens in mind, so flip it turnways for maximum enjoyment.  
> -I am 95% sure the only browser this will not solidly work in is Opera Mini. Don't read this in Opera Mini.  
> -Pretty sure my svg hoster gets flagged by corporate firewalls because I'm routing it through the cheapest domain name money could buy (five bucks for ten years, bitch!!!), so if some of the "images" are broken then stop reading fic at work/school, slacker.  
> -This will have three “parts,” but there will be an undetermined amount of mini-chapters separating the parts. I consider a “part” to be a big trippy sex scene.
> 
> Have fun, relax, lay back, enjoy the ride.

"So I summoned a demon the other day," says Rose, sipping her latte.

"Lies," you say, circling the rim of your coffee mug (black, dark roast) with your pointer finger. "You're as stiffly atheist as I am. You're the pressed, over-bleached laundry of atheism."

"Funny thing, that," says Rose. "Turns out all religions are correct, it's all about what you give your heart to. And I gave my heart to the deuterocanonical mythos surrounding Catholicism, as it apparently contains a tall, dark, and handsome demon lady with dog ears who knew all my sins and whispered filthy black scriptures in my ears."

"You summoned a demon and you fucked it."

"What else are you supposed to do with a demon."

"You summoned a _non-canonical Catholic furry_ demon and you fucked it."

"I can’t resist the classics. Besides, Rabbi Klien always warned Roxy and I not to fuck with the shedim."

You sit at a table with your paternal half-sister, during one of your bi-weekly get-togethers. She bitches about her Latin doctoral studies, you bitch about your fancy millennial Silicon Valley programmer job, you drink overpriced local coffee in your overpriced local coffeeshop and ignore the background hum of the surrounding crowd. Usually you two tend to stick towards logical over-analysis taking sharp downward turns into self-manufactured anxiety, but today you’re apparently veering onto the fantasy land freeway, speeding towards imagination town.

“Rose,” you say, solemnly. “You should have at least summoned and fucked the Steed of Famine.”

She digs out her phone from her purse, unlocks it. “I knew you’d be sarcastic to hide your disdain, so I snapped a picture. I believe you will find sufficient evidence to sow seeds of doubt in your worldview.”

She shows you the image. Rose’s face is in the foreground, fuzzy, grinning open mouthed and making a peace sign, the camera tilted up at an unattractive angle that looks up her nostrils. The focus is on the thing behind her. 

A massive wolf stands on her queen sized bed, her mattress barely big enough to fit the span of its legs. The animal is pitch black, a true and infinite darkness with no discernible features. All you can recognize on its great form are the eyes, pure white and pupilless, staring through the camera and seemingly into your soul. If you squint at it, you get the impression its wagging its tail.

All religion is bullshit. If it were real, you’d leap at the chance to fuck some giant monster thing. You’d summon a demon in a hot second. There is an annoying flicker of hope in you as you look at that image, one that does not crush your worldview or change your perception on religion, but one that sparks a flame and a want for the possibility of some _otherworldly dick._

Rose gives you a brief overview of what went down, sans the grody sex details: the demon appeared mostly human at first, then transformed for the fuckfest. Afterwards, the two of them played video games and ordered vegetarian pizza, and when Rose woke up the next morning her demon was gone. Some of the details are too strange and weird for her to be pulling your leg (unless if she planned it like that, to trick you, and this is some ultimate fifth dimension mindgame prank). Like the demon’s name. And how her hobbies included electric bass and gardening.

The story she tells makes it sound like a trashy internet hookup, except you're guaranteed not to be ghosted and/or disappointed and also your demon might be a furry. Worth dooming your immortal soul to hell for? Absol-fucking-lutely.

“I summoned it while smashed on a Wednesday night and by fooling around with the dictation of my own pseudo-translated version of Frontinus’ _Strategemata,_ ” says Rose, finishing her drink. “I decided to use only female words for a certain passage. Anyway, turns out if you only read the verbs aloud you get a sexy lady demon.”

You frown. “What? That makes no sense. _Strategemata_ predates Catholicism by a fucking mile.”

Rose leans forward, over the table, eager to spill all. “See, here’s the thing, the content doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what you read aloud. It’s all about the language. All you need to summon a demon is a gendered language, a couple paragraphs that _you personally_ translated into that language in a way that prioritizes the words of a certain gender, and then speak only a specific grammar device aloud. Verbs summon females, nouns summon males, and I suppose adverbs and adjectives are wildcard or somewhere else on the gender spectrum. I believe the demon you receive is based less on the content of the text and more on the dialect of whatever you’re reading. I, for one, was using Renaissance Latin. Therefore, Catholic demon.”

Sounds easy enough. All you have to do is copy-paste a couple paragraphs from the Wikipedia article of the day into your autoresponder, have it translate the sentences into the language of your choice, then only read aloud the nouns. 

“Sweet,” you say. “And here I thought it’d require some blood sacrifices, a pentagram, and Marilyn Manson tunes played backwards.” 

"And you will have to read your passage while sitting within a plain circle, drawn in whatever you have handy," she says. "It separates our world from the 'other,' a symbolic infinity keeping you safe while drawing a border between us and The Unknown. Most cultures have a bit of a supernatural circle fetish, so this generally works for everything."

“Huh.”

"Is this going to consume you?" asks Rose. "You're getting that look on your face like it's going to consume you."

"It's not going to consume me."

It consumes you. You spend the next two weeks taking PTO and doing nothing but reading demonology books. You sleep for four to six hours every night. You take no breaks. You neglect your usual cardio and do ellipticals in order to have your book reading hand free. You eat a lot of Annie's Organic & Natural Mac and Cheese, because Dave got a box of 12 on sale at Costco for you.

You can do this due to possessing one of those overpaid startup jobs with outrageous perks, one of which includes infinite vacation time. It's a fair tradeoff for a 70 hour workweek (not ordered by your bosses-- it's of your own insane volition). You miss out on the catered lunches, but you think it's worth it for the chance to touch dicks with a supernatural entity.

You are determined to do this right. You will not be some boneheaded Faustian warning story. You are going to write up a demon-binding contract that you will not lose your soul for, go to hell for, or allow for any loopholes within. They will sign your list of demands and they will be indentured to you with no repercussions, forced to go through infinite iterations of sexing whenever you want it. They will be unable to exploit the contract, because you’re going to make it watertight and perfect.

This is what takes the bulk of the time. You write every statement of your sex demon contract in logic to help yourself work through exploits, A → B ⊨ ¬B → ¬A and all that. When you’ve over thought every ounce of it, you have eight double sided pages, typed with 14 point font, no margins, TNR, single spaced, and clear circle bullet points. Yeah. You’re ready.

You decide to summon this in your living room. You have a one-bedroom, in one of those fancy post-gentrification built apartments. There’s a kitchen, bedroom, bathroom with a massive jacuzzi sized tub that you basically live in, and entryway/livingroom combo. You try to keep it clean, but you have a hard time not throwing your shit on the floor all the time. You figure the demon won’t care. You at least made your bed. And prepped your body.

You washed the bejezus out of your butthole and ate some nu-mag liquid diet for the past 24 hours, so you are goddamn amped for a giant demon cock to slam past the safe ranges of assholery and slide into squeaky-clean, unclaimed territory. You're ready to be ravished. You're ready to be plundered. You're ready to fuckin' boned. 'Disappointed' will not even begin to describe your mood if this doesn't end up working. You might actually show up at Rose's fire escape window with your shitty katana at sunset and menacingly cast a shadow into her living room if this doesn't work. That's one hell of a goddamn threat, is what it is.

You buy some chalk from the corner store, and sit crosslegged on the smooth wood in your entryway. You draw a circle around yourself, contract on your lap. You whip out your phone, copying the first couple paragraphs from the Project Gutenberg copy of _Venus in Furs,_ then pasting it into your “smart home” input console, an app you built for your autoresponder.

You stare at the text, flashing in the white box, and think about what language “you’ll” translate it into.

You're fluent in French in order to talk to the overseas AI guys, but French is so fucking blasé in regards to demon summoning. It's like Latin Lite. You are not getting shown up by Rose.

You're about a JLPT Level 2 in Japanese, which you mostly use to watch low budget hentai from a purely academic standpoint. You know from said ventures that summoning a Japanese demon sounds like a horrifying descent into scare territory real, real fast. Worst case is you summon a bunch of hungry ghosts who proceed to eat you. Not your kink. Besides, you're not sure how the Male/Female thing would work in a language without gendered words.

That leaves Modern Standard Arabic, which you took exactly one semester of in college. You struggled with it, the moon and sun letters and shit, which means you had to dump it immediately. You dump anything that doesn't come easy to you. But you know the alphabet, and you can say critical verbless phrases such as ‘My mother is in the car.’ Whatever you get with an Arabic summoning can't be _that_ different from Judeo-Christian canon. Right? Right.

"Hey, autoresponder," you say.

"'Sup," says your autoresponder, from the speaker in your living room. It has your voice.

You accent the consonants clearly so it can understand you. "Translate input text: phone into Arabic. Fuzzy judgment: living language. Output: voice protocol. Select from nouns only.”

It thinks for a while, concatenating different online translation softwares and tons of webcrawler and language learning programs that you coded yourself. "Dialect?"

"Modern Standard Arabic."

"Incompatible. Choose another selection?"

The prosody is mangled on your autoresponder's reply-- emphasis makes it sound like a polite question instead of the type of harshly formed accusation you prefer. You memorize the sentence and make a mental note to either re-record the vocals or mess with the synthesizer some more.

Anyway, what the fuck does incompatible mean. Like it's too 21st century for the text you chose? You're boned without MSA. Literally all you know about Arabic dialects is that there are hundreds of them, and they're different enough to make your basic vocabulary knowledge base completely useless. You try to remember where your freshman year Arabic professor was from. Somewhere in the Levant, probably. 

"Levant... tine Arabic," you guess.

Apparently you picked the right answer. Your autoresponder begins making the "processing" noise, a series of pleasant clicks you slapped together in Audacity. After a few seconds, it switches to 'hold please' music, a 4x slowed down version of Girl From Ipanema with twenty six distorted jpegs in MPEG format layered over it that you also slapped together in Audacity, which indicates your responder needs to think for a while.

While you wait, you take the time to read through the Wikipedia article for Levantine Arabic, which appears to be the parent categorization of at least five other dialects, not to mention being some ancient spawn of Aramaic's loins. What is your autoresponder doing with this? Making some deranged, concatenated Frankenstein language from all the listed dialects on Wikipedia? Or using some kind of ancient Syriac/Aramaic lexicon? You're logging into your local AR instance and pulling up the debug logs on your phone when your autoresponder begins translating.

Your own voice echoes through the speakers, reading off the parsed scripture in... something that sure sounds like Arabic. You turn the screen off on your phone and focus on listening, trying to pick out any words you know. There ain't a one. You don't even hear the "al" particle anywhere, although that might be due to it reading only the root word. Well this is going just fucking dandy. You think about telling the AR to stop, but you're curious to see what this gets you. A whole buffet of mythologies and religions originate in the Levant, this could turn out to be pretty cool.

Silence hangs in the room when your autoresponder finishes. Then, you hear a knock.

You blink at the circle. You expected the demon to rise out of the floor, or something. Not a polite knock on your door.

You get up to answer. You look through the peephole before opening. A guy about your age stands in the apartment hallway, with his hands shoved in his front sweatshirt pocket.

You open the door for him. He's almost exactly your height, maybe an inch taller. Skin is a little dark, hair is a _lot_ dark, eyes are a friendly green and magnified a bit by thick framed glasses. He's got on socks and sandals and tiny 1980s-esque sport shorts, all of which give him a Michael Cera in _Juno_ vibe. He's beaming at you like he's coming in for a job interview.

Cute? Yeah. Fuckable? _Very._ You're reconsidering bottoming on this one. Although if he turns into a giant wolf or something you suppose the point is moot.

“Hello,” he says. “You called for me?”

“Yeah,” you say, figuring the coincidence is too much to cast doubt on at the moment. "I'll invite you in once you swear to my itemized list of demands."

He sighs, shoulders sagging. "Oh no. There's really no need! You honestly don't have to fret about it! If I ever rustle your scruples I swear it's by accident."

He has one hell of an accent. It’s either some Deep South Bayou Bullshit you haven't heard of or a cartoonish parody of an African wildgame hunter in the 1900s.

"Shove it," you say, waving your contract in front of his face. "Now get comfy, this might take a-"

The demon proceeds to snatch the papers out of your hand, crumples them up into a ball, tilts his head back, and swallows the entire list in one comically exaggerated gulp. Alright.

The demon shakes his head, like he just got punched and is trying to regain clarity. He reaches into his sweatshirt pocket, and pulls out one of those cheap free click pens you can get at funeral homes. He beams at you. "You want to dance the horizontal foxtrot? It's been a while. But I'm real happy to be of service. Although I'm not certain I can do the puppet related items. Thank Christ they were optional! Where would you like my name?"

You guess he "digested" the information, because you requested an oddly specific signature on your contract. It's cool that he swallowed the list, you made copies. You can always take them to hell and request a demon lawyer to represent you in court if he breaks the rules, probably. You point at your right shoulder, tilting it towards him, and the demon bends to write his name on you. Of course it’s one of those loopy shwoopy Arabic calligraphy signatures, where all the letters are printed over each other and your dumb ass uncultured thinkpan can’t figure out what’s what. You squint at it, when he’s finished.

“Okay. I see a… Jeeeyk.”

He frowns. "You must not be very worldly. You can call me Jake English."

“Pleasure. My name’s Dirk Strider.”

"Now let me in and we can begin checking off all the wonderful things on your list."

You offer him your arm, to escort him. He puts his hand to his mouth in mock-surprise. "My my. What a gentleman."

He takes your arm, and you pull him inside, locking the door behind him. "So what's with the accent? Are you some kind of sex demon of Victorian colonialism?"

"I don't know! _Am_ I a demon of colonialism, white boy?"

“Point,” you say, taking his arm again when you’ve fully secured your apartment-soon-to-be-sex-dungeon. “You want anything to drink.”

He beams at you. “No thank you! I think you’re ready to bluster into what you want headfirst. I won’t belay you with such trivials!”

“Thank you kindly.”

He kicks off his sandals in the entryway, which is considerate, then allows you to guide him to your room. Your bedroom's not as decked out as the rest of your apartment— you keep most of your art and posters and junk in the other rooms, preferring your sleep space to contain only a large bed and an even bigger window. The walk-in closet that leads to your bathroom is where you keep your clothing and excess trinkets. On a normal day, you have a bunch of arthouse puppetry tools and hilarious phallic stuffed animals scattered about, but you make it a habit of hiding them when you have hookups. Freaks 'em out too much. 

He sits on the edge of your bed without your urging. You sit down next to him. He takes the opportunity to scoot in close, press his fingers to your chin, tilt your head around.

"You were very clever in your papers," he says, quirking your head, examining you like an entomologist. "You want the loss of control with the element of surprise, yet without the danger of being hurt. You want to get unstuck from that head of yours. You want, quote, 'the physical absence of worry and anxiety, the descent into sexual illusion, tl;dr trippy shit', end quote. To do that I must change your perceptions, sweetheart. Let me carve love letters on the skin of your eyelids."

"Whatever you need to do to get off, I guess," you state. 

He tugs off his sweatshirt. Tosses it aside. Combs his fingers through his hair to get it back into that hipster isosceles triangle shape. He's got on a Ms. Marvel t-shirt— a big lightning bolt over blue. You reach out, rest your hand on his waist. The cloth is soft, almost velvety. You inch your fingers up under the hem, but Jake places his hand over yours.

"Don't be hasty. Let's shoot the breeze," he says, shifting closer to you. Your thigh presses to his. "I am always down to be ogled. But I like being seen by The Followed as more than a piece of meat!"

"The What Now," you ask, dryly. He doesn't answer. He reaches out and takes off your shades, which you always consider a rather intimate act, but literally no one else does so you always pretend that it's cool. You're cool. It's cool.

Here's where he kisses you.

You usually enjoy a bit of buildup before a first kiss, and this comes with none. Once your shades are gone, he simply leans in and pecks you on the lips. But damn, he's plush. The simple kiss is soft, tender, lingering… You'd go so far as to call it lovely.

He smells very good, too. Nostalgic. He smells exactly like that time when you were forced to go to Unitarian Universalist summer camp at age fifteen because Dave ironically volunteered as a councilor there, and you got tasked with putting out the camp bonfire that night because you knew how, and the irresponsible-in-retrospect adults left you alone with the simmering ashes, and you laid down next to the pit smoke and charcoal and stared up at the milky way unclouded by light pollution and felt how little you were in the grand scheme of things and contemplated your future and dreamt about becoming a superstar programmer. Either that, or he smells like cigarettes and you're just projecting.

He pulls back, and smiles at you.

"So! About me! I love movies and comic books. And I like skulls and bones and going to the gun range. America's so great," he says. He sets your shades on the ground, near his sweatshirt. He presses his hand to your cheek, then slides it back, so the soft part of his wrist is pressed to your skin. You feel his pulse, which is very human. "I don't have a job or any such nonsense. But I want money for my hobbies so I do things like this. Or I put on some panties and take some fancy pictures and barter my discarded underoos on reddit for five hundred bucks a pop."

"Solid business practice," you say, and that's only half sarcastic. You’re a little confused as to why the demon needs money. Can’t they just vaporize into hell when they’re low on cash?

He leans in again. Another soft kiss. He gives you a small slip of tongue, like a snake, then pulls back. Your heart flutters.

"I love traveling and exploring, but I'm plumb terrible at it so I decided it's more fun to day dream. Or to delve into other people and see what rip roaring adventures they have up their sleeves for me. Much safer that way."

He kisses you again, so gentle, a saccharine sweet moment of frenching. You're kissing like lovers on a park bench. You're getting antsy for more, frustration feeding your sex drive.

"What do you do?" he asks.

"Natural-language processing," you say. You have a preprepared set of phrases to describe what you do to the uneducated, but it comes out more dumbed down than normal. "I… I make the voice box on self-driving cars talk at you."

"Ain't that a hot knife through butter," he says, seemingly impressed with you. "I'm a bit of a pop culture patriot, so I'm up to snuff on the artificial intelligence tropes. Can't help drawing the connections!"

"I'm not making some evil HAL 9000 robot bullshit," you say. "I'm making benign Siri clones for rich Elon Musk types."

"Sorry," he says, blinking innocently at you. “I guess I assume that my gentleman callers are of a certain dystopian disposition. Now, I think we’ve dallied long enough. Rest your head on the pillow and hold very still, and I’ll take you somewhere fantastic.”

You lay down, and he follows your descent, propping himself up over you. He wiggles his fingers, rests them against your left sideburn. He finds a notch there, the latch to a jewelry box, and pulls your face open like a swinging Fabergé egg.

What the fuck.

You and Jake sit atop a perfect mirror of how you were positioned on your bed, although there is nothing but black night and starry beads to support your back.  
Your back pulses against your bed, you throw your head into the pillow, and your vision goes black with seizure. Jake watches you spasm, without touching you.

He continues to kiss you sweet and gentle, like he’s reciprocating a crush for the first time. He inches his fingers up your shirt, and the sensation is impossibly strong. It's giving you the ASMR tingles not just in the back of your head, but all the way along your spine. You tangle your fingers in his hair and hold him close. Behind the lids of your eyes, you still see the stars all around you. It’s as though you’re absorbed in the night.

|  | 

He grabs a fistful of your hair and forces you to accept a kiss, which you are very enthusiastic about. He bites your lip and licks the side of your mouth and makes out with you all feral and possessive. He pulls your head back, to expose your neck, and presses heavy kisses down your throat. It gives you such a thrill to let a _creature_ you just met have access to one of the most vulnerable part of you. You hope it leaves marks.  
  
---|---|---  
  
He presses his hand gently between your legs, slides his hand over your jeans, rubs your cock until you're fully erect. You loll your head back and let him.

| 

Well, my spacial awareness flew the fucking coup when we blasted off into space. I feel like you grew another four arms. But you look the same. I can't-

| 

He digs his fingers into your skin, underneath your shirt, and you feel him scratch down your spine with blunt nails. The pressure’s perfect, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make you shiver.  
  
He dips his hand under your waistband, strokes your shaft.

| 

-ah, fuck-

| 

He nudges aside your t-shirt and sinks his teeth into your shoulder.  
  
He separates from you to pull off your shirt, then undresses you. You kick your pants off, which vanish into the starry night. You're completely fucking naked, while he's still wearing everything. It gives you a great inverse power high, like you're here to serve him.

| 

-I can't tell what's happening.  
Explain how this works.  
Im magic! *double pistols and a wink*  
Thanks, asshole.  
Also, don't stop doing that thing. The thing on the right. The thing on the left is okay, I guess.

| 

He forces you to sit up with him. Grabs your head and presses it against those dumb gym shorts, scratchy parachute cloth against your cheek. Like the obedient little hellhound you are, you mouth his cock through the fabric. It's obvious he's not wearing underwear. You run your tongue up the length of his erection, tasting the fake plasticness of manmade clothing. This is so… exceedingly dirty. You kind of love it.  
  
| 

You nestle your head further between his legs. His shorts are scanty enough that you can nudge the fabric aside with your mouth, like panties. You get at his balls. You're absolutely intending to lick and suck where the sun don’t shine. But you get distracted by the star of the show, and decide to pull off his shorts to get a good view of everything first.

He's big, exactly how you wanted it. Uncut, too. You gently slide his foreskin back over the head. For the first time, he actually reacts to what you're doing to him: he briefly squeezes you between his legs. An encouraging thigh-hug.  
  
| 

Youve been through a real number of hands.  
A vessel for a lot of lust.  
Grindr will do that to you.  
But its not all nothings and empty hearts.  
Youve felt more love than a cat in the sunshine.  
Have I? I don't think that's true.  
I just like dick.  
I once sucked so much dick I got TMJ.  
I hope you dont mind a bit more jaw exercise!  
Not at all, sweetheart.

| 

He looks plenty clean. You slip your mouth over him, holding him steady at the base, and you get a feel for him by poking around with your tongue. Mappin’ the lay of the land and all. You've conveniently been undressed by his gentler side, so it feels wonderful when he presses his palm to the blade of your bare shoulder. His skin is burning hot, a pleasant detail.

You press down, take him in, try to focus on nothing in particular as you activate those legendary DiStri blowjob skills.  
  
| 

You realize, when you're managing to communicate with a cock shoved down your throat, that he's reading your thoughts.  
  
Invaded mental boundaries or no, you keep sucking his cock. You love giving head too much.

| 

You want to see if someone can parse the unparseable.  
Besides you of course.  
It will probably relieve you to note that i cannot possibly delve through all your alleyways and corridors and crannies! I could spend an aeon in here and not get to explore it all.

| 

Oh, shit, if you think about it real hard, you can simultaneously split your thoughts and actions in two. Neat.  
  
---|---|---  
  
You lick at the tip, cover your teeth with your lip, get as far down as you can without stressing yourself out about deepthroating, then back up. Wash, rinse, repeat.

| 

Fine. Maybe I do want someone to unravel me. And maybe I'm so fucking obtuse I have to summon a demon to get my dark fantasy of "open communication" fulfilled.  
But while I desire it, the romance of having a sexual spirit reading your every thought is best meant for the imagination.  
In reality it makes me feel ill, invaded.  
High and mighty of you to assume that this is real at all.

| 

You duck down, gently pulling one of his balls into your mouth, toying with it. You think he makes a pleased humming noise, but it's hard to tell.  
  
You get your hand in on the action, twisting in the space where your mouth can't go.

| 

I perceive it as real, and I will remember it in a way that will probably affect my psyche, so doesn't that make it so?  
*Winks at you twice rapidly*. Do you really want to have an argument about this fatalistic fuckery while engaging in lustful behavior?  
Yes. This is high quality foreplay. I love being degraded through philosophical self examination. It's diamonds.jpg down there.  
Secondly, I am relishing the chance to have a dialectic while I literally have your entire dick in my mouth. This is the fucking tops.  
Haha you are a card.  
So then let me be a gentleman and ask with a plain emerald green voice on top of all this imaginary nonsense. What next Strider? What would you like to do?

| 

You shift to give the same treatment to the other, working his shaft with your hand while you mess around.  
  
[Just slam my ass into the star filled floor and fuck me already.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950637)

| 

[Fuck it, I want me inside *you.*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950535)

| 

[Jake. We’re going black diamonds here. Advanced techniques. Please do the weirdest, mindbendiest thing you can manage.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950679)


	2. PHYSIOGNOMY

He lies back on a bed of stars, and you lay against him, chest to chest. Missionary. How vanilla. You heft him up, his legs hooking around you just under your arms. You feel his entrance press against the tip of your cock, and he's hot and soft and slick, and you rock your hips forward without thinking. The ring of pressure sliding along your dick is wonderfully tight, which you guess you should have expected from penetrating this dude with no foreplay. But he’s all lubed up for you, somehow, which some ABO trope shit that you really don’t want to think about at the moment. You can’t seem to define the expression he’s making below you: his face looks like it’s phased off into the fourth dimension, like you lack the neurology or visual image processing powers to see him clearly.

|   
---|---  
  
He feels different. Anal is usually more like a super intense ring of pressure, sliding along your dick wonderfully tight, with everything past it freefloating. _This_ is more like an all-over grip, less tight but more encompassing, encouraging you to go at it sloppy and fast. You’re too hormonal to question it. You start humping Jake like you're trying to fuck the goddamn floor.

| 

I'm sorry. I should have prepped you. Or something.  
I'm not hurting you, am I?  
Look how polite you are! Golly.  
But no not at all!  
Im rather enjoying you so far strider.  
  
You focus on grinding into him, fast. You love the noise it makes as you fuck him, skin hitting skin, with the added slick of the penetration. You lace your fingers with his. Which, in this vague, hard-to-parse dreamscape, is an odd visceral detail to pick up on. He nips at your mouth, coy and playful, because he knows you're too out of it to kiss back.

| 

Wait. I'm not.  
I'm not breeding you, or anything. Am I.  
This could easily turn into some mythological Loki-esque warning story.  
Tell me.  
This isn't going to turn into some.  
Some fucking. Demonic mpreg reverse Rosemary's Baby thing. Is it.  
No. I dont think id much like having kids if i had to take care of them.  
We can PRETEND im a fertile field if you want.  
Leave a pretty white mess on me for maximum effect.  
I could go for a slice of homemade pie. *Wink wink nudge nudge*  
  
You feel good. Like a bath of warm caramel.  
And youre prettier than a fresh peach like this too.  
I like you dude. I should have jumped in the drivers seat before you got to it.  
I could have seduced you easy! Then id have you plow me all night.  
Id want to take you til dawn. Force you to get hard over and over again.  
Lovely shudder strider. You like those frivolities, right?  
The threat of being owned? Youre so lucky its all fireworks and illusion.  
Id pitch a fit if you werent such a sweet.  
I guess im yours forever.  
But you know those old dry tales of morality. Things never work out right.  
Anyway you grinding me like youre trying to start a fire is MAYBE KIND OF A LITTLE BORING!  
Finish inside me.  


You buck forward, the orgasm building up in your core finally tipping over breaking point. You embed yourself as deep as you can in him. It's a good one, it gets you going when your partner orders you to come. You're still in the aftershocks when you figure you should probably lay down the plan while you've got your wits together. Before you pull out, before the sudden absence of testosterone makes you a crippling shell of a human who regrets all their life choices, you make a request.

[Roll back time, English, I want me horny again and I want you in my ass.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950637)

| 

[I want another erection that's so pure and holy it can be used as a spear to fight Zeus, and I want you to do something wild with it.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950679)

| 

[What the fuck was that about ownership. You know what. Nevermind. I'm done.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950714)  
  
---|---|---


	3. PHERENOLOGY

He is behind you. You feel the cloth of his shirt brush against your back as he pulls it off. He presses his bare chest to your shoulders. You are both sitting high up on your knees. He rubs your hips, you feel his dick twitch against your ass.

I don't know about you, but I can't maintain this kneeling position for more than two minutes. you tell him. I have nothing to brace against.  
Good thing this isnt real then. You just have to believe in yourself! he tells you.

He kisses your shoulder as he pushes into you, slick through mental magic you don't have it in you to question. You're not at peak relaxation levels, so you're surprised it doesn't hurt. He gets all the way inside you in a slow slide, and you let your head fall back against his clavicle. You breathe, flex your muscles, enjoy how big he is and that electric pang of pleasurable deepness you get from larger guys. You shut your eyes. He kisses your ear.

The freckles on your shoulders are cute as a button! Ill map the sky to it. *the stars shift to match your cute freckles, moving and bouncing off each other like a game of marbles*

He holds your hips and fucks you and it feels disappointingly normal, although at least it's a well-above average normal. You know you can come from this if you focus; he pulls back his thrusts far enough to get your prostate. But your mind is a fickle thing. You let yourself split and wander.

Behind the lids of your eyes you still see the stars, now matched to the count of your freckles, which is a poetically romantic gesture you can get behind. You are both surrounded by them and filled with them, and it washes you over with a true calmness. You let yourself be absorbed in the infinite night. You feel pretty zen, considering you’re getting your ass slammed and you’re distracted by multiple other versions of yourself focusing on different things. Jake gives you a reacharound, and you sigh into his neck and press your fingers into his toned legs and feel all the lights shimmer within you. 

| 

If you focus on it, you can make yourself aware of what’s happening in the real world. You’re laying on your bed, fully clothed. Did your body come already? You paradoxically have and have-not. Time is a manmade construct and all, blah blah. You're pretty sure you're having epileptic fits in the real world, although you're not familiar enough with neurological maladies to truly diagnose this. Every couple seconds your vision will black out, where you're knocked out and thrown from the earthly level of perception, and then you come back in a state of rigidness, jaw locked, fluids pouring disgustingly out of every hole in your face. In your brief moments of clarity, you are too blisteringly aroused and too busy writhing and rattling like an angry snake to look for where Jake is. If he's raiding your apartment while you’re mentally indisposed, you are going straight to demon court.

| 

You don't usually fantasize while having sex. You focus on the sensation unless if you're getting a really boring blowjob, but this imagery slips into your head like you've already hashed it out for hours upon hours. You're laying down on fine carpet, a body straddling yours. The other person is riding you in cowgirl, your dick comfortably squeezed on all sides. The sound is wet and heady as they bounce on top of you. Your fantasy focuses on the feel of their skin, your palm sliding up a waist that's too hourglass shaped for your usual liking, coming to a rest on their large breasts, while your other hand rubs circles against their... clit. When you look up into her unearthly blue eyes you realize that there is no fucking way you are willfully thinking of this.  
Hello! Get out of there.  
Was that a memory of yours. Is this a two way street.  
Is what a two way street?  
This is a two way street, isn't it. You just don't want to tell me about it. I can get in your maze as easily as you get in mine.  
Is there an art to it? I can probably figure out how to jump in there and find out everything about you. I'm something of a legendary anti-psychologist. Can I psychoanalyze you into submission.  
Thats a BIT PRESUMPTUOUS OF YOU! I dont like mind games and im not going to play them.  
Besides i refuse to allow that sort of talk when youre bottoming.  
You're just fucking me, this isn't a dom-sub thing. You're just scared I can apparently air your dirty laundry.  
Which I will if you try any funny stuff, kiddo. Looks like we've each got a gun held to each other's heads.  
Now youre speaking my language. ;) Keep talking like that and ill fire it off early!  
Actually i think ill do that RIGHT NOW for trying to invade my privacy like IM SOME KIND OF WIZZBANG WINDUP TOY YOU INSIDIOUS ASS.  
Are you serious right now. Glass houses, dude.  
  
---|---|---  
  
His grip gets just the right angle and speed and his cock hits just the right spot at just the right pace and orgasm comes nice and easy. You have a normal, satisfying release. It’s mildly disappointing.

| 

“Fuck you,” you stammer, to nobody, as your hips seize up and you spill inside your jeans, for your first, second, or third orgasm, depending on the order of simultaneous sex scenes. Jake leans into your field of vision, blinking, calmly drinking a glass of water he stole from your kitchen.

| 

Your muscles spasm, you grip her ass and force her to keep up the pace, then hold her thighs down flush to your hips as you come inside her. You’re swimming with the feeling of orgasm present in Jake’s memory, but this is totally ruined by the heterosex bullshittery he is subjecting you to.  
  
| 

Did you just make me come to a memory of you having boring unprotected sex with some buxom blue eyed lady. What the hell.  
  
[Too vanilla. Give me something weird.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950679)

| 

[I seem to recall you declining my offer of something to drink. Put that down and bring me back to real life.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950714)

| 

[Seriously, fuck you, and I meant that. Ass up, time to get boned.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950535)  
  
---|---|---


	4. CRANIOMETRY

He pulls a wooden pen from the pocket of his shorts, one of the ones with the flat calligraphy nibs.

Nice pen.  
Thank you! I made it from a reed that grows at my future tomb.  
Calm down, Keats, you might bring back Romanticism.  
I have no idea what that means??  


You lay back. Ink pools into the cavities of your collarbones, and he dips his pen into them. 

I will map arousal into your skin.

He draws a winding, curling, calligraphic story along your skin. And although you can't understand the language, can't even look down at yourself, you know what he's writing and you know that it's horrifically pretty. You translate the intent in your head, forming words from feelings. He starts on your fingers and paints large, looping, stylistic curves up your knuckles, palms, the tender inside of your forearm, your ribs and chest and hips and thighs and legs and feet. Some words are large, some quite small, but it's all custom made to map along the lines of your soul.  
---  
  
The only physical contact you're getting is with the writing instrument. Every stroke of the pen on your body is torture. You feel each movement of the nib twirl and skim and press on your skin. You feel the wet ink swipe along every part of you, feel it dry inch by inch. You're gasping, twitching, arching your back for more pressure, his hand, _something_ , but he keeps it all steady.

| 

| 

The imagery he maps into you is so visceral, it's like your perception is split three ways between your body, your starscape, and what he writes. You're getting drawn on in a way that somehow gets you hard. You're fully clothed and collapsed on top of your comforter and having seizures and Jake is flipping through some of the indie porn comics you have shoved under your bed.  
  
He dips his pen in the pools of your collarbone, gets a dollop of ink. He presses the nib to the head of your dick, and you're finally getting some sort of stimulation and you feel the black drip down your shaft and balls and you're inches away from comeing. You find it imperative that he finishes his map first, so you edge yourself, feeling everything tense as he rubs the tip of your cock with his thumb, writes that final line along the left side of your shaft. Youre good to go he says, thinks, whatever, and your eyes roll back and you let yourself spill over the poetry he carved into your abdomen.   
  
[Once more. Claim my ass in the name of Satan and swallow my rump in hellfire.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950637)

| 

[Play it again, Sam. Let's do another round. I'm fucking you this time.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950535)

| 

[Wait. That wasn't even sex. Whatever. I'm finished.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/33950714)  
  
---|---|---


	5. FOLLOWER

You lay on your back, on your bed, and you have never felt like more of a mess in your life.

You've long since broken into a cold sweat. Your shirt is soaked with what feels like ice water. There are tears pouring down the side of your face. You feel an obnoxious blob of jizz seeping between your jeans and your thigh because your stupid ass went commando. Your fingers are cramped from clinging tight onto your comforter for so long. You're trembling, like the aftershocks of an earthquake, like you just came down from a seizure. You have never wanted to be held more in your life.

This isn't subspace. You've been in subspace. This is panic space. You feel like you're two inches from your throat closing up and your heart bursting out of your chest in a horrific shower of inner organs.

Jake stares down at you, completely unaffected. "I usually leave or raid the pantry or whatnot at this point, but... Fucking Christ, you wrote aftercare into your ‘contract.’”

You’re not sure why he air-quoted there, but you’re more worried about the looming threat of fear-asphyxiation.

"Yup," you say, weakly. "And you're going to enjoy it, ya filthy animal."

"Admittedly," he says, blinking at you. "I've never done this."

"Hold me," you beg. "Clean me up. Draw me a bath and get in with me."

"Aye aye, captain," he says, saluting you.

He wraps his arms around you and hoists you up to a sitting position, pressing his entire body to your side. You feel his erection prod your hip. You'd jerk him off like a gentleman, but you can't possibly collect yourself enough so your hand isn't rattling around like a lose bag of bones. You've long since reached your limit, and the worst part is you weren't even conscious for it.

He holds you up, pets your face, kisses your cheek in a picture perfect imitation of that one Gustav Klimt painting. You shut your eyes, breathe. His humanness comforts you, slows your heart, lets you focus on reality. You turn your head towards him, and he kisses your mouth, no tongue or lust, just sweet presses. When you're no longer concerned about having an early onset heart attack, you duck away, nestle your head in his shoulder. You dry your eyes on his shirt. His clothes still smell like campfire smoke.

"If you draw me a bath you can fuck me in it," you suggest. Your voice comes out dry and scratchy. "Gentle. None of that druggy mind shit."

"Whatever you desire," he whispers, and kisses your temple.

He does what you ask of him. He carries you to the bath, bridal style. Turns on the water, helps you undress and vice versa. You'd admire him if you could, but you don't want to be out of his arms for too long. He helps you lay back in your bathtub as the water runs. He sits on the edge of it, coaxes you to spread your legs, and reaches down to finger you. You'd throw a fit if you were aware he was doing this without lube, but the second and third fingers feel sweet and slick and he rubs against the right spot and you're not going to question it. Magic. Demon magic. Who cares. You'll over analyze it later, when you've stopped shaking so bad.

He turns the tap off and steps in the tub, the water coming up to his calves. Black begins to waft from his skin and amalgamate into the water, as though he were coated in charcoal. He's got an average sized dick in real life, not too huge. Perfect for post-coital coital. He kneels between your thighs, lifts you up a little, and slides into you.

You proceed to have excruciatingly vanilla sex in ink-drenched waters. The feel of an actual body is incredibly relieving, the sensation of your cheek pinned to his sweat slick neck, the sound of him panting in time with the waves that lap against the sides of the tub. You don't come, but you don't need to. You feel his pulse, the blink of his eyelashes, butterfly kisses on your shoulder.

The water gets darker and darker with every thrust. By the time he finishes, shaking against you and making an alarmingly cute noise into your neck, the liquid in the tub is a matte, pitch black. You cannot see anything underneath, not even a millimeter under the surface. 

He pulls out of you, lays against you. You rest with him for a while, and you know you're back to Dirk Strider equilibrium when you start wondering if that black dye is going to stain your asshole. Or even worse, if it's going to leave a mark on your bathtub.

"Jake," you say, annoyed. "What are we soaking in?"

"Water," he says, bored.

"No. What's this black stuff."

He shrugs against you. "I don’t know. It always just does that sort of thing for me. Hey I'm hungry. Can we get food?"

You roll your eyes, deciding it's not worth the effort to try to squeeze answers out of him. He seems sort of… dumb, anyway. Like he wouldn't know no matter how hard you pressed. "Sure. We can order something. What do you want."

"Chicken. Preferably with the bone in. So chicken wings. A lot of chicken wings."

"What. Like. KFC. Do you want to go to KFC."

He sits up, on his knees, and blinks his eyes open. He looks sleepy. "Yes. If it's not a pain."

"Hey, autoresponder," you call out.

"'Sup," says your autoresponder, from the speaker set on top of the toilet tank.

"... You gave your smart home your own voice?" mumbles Jake. "That's... a lot to unpack."

You ignore Jake. "AND gate fuzzy judgment monoidal t-norm set custom logic library 'Dirk just got fucked:' Should I go to the nearest KFC? IFF One: Travel time. Best modus of travel. End. Zero: Call Haystack Pizza. End."

"... What?" says Jake, completely unable to decipher the most basic of boolean logics. You get this reaction a lot. You think you hang out with really dumb people, this is like, fourth grade mathematics. Good to know your demon is also prey to simple mortal concepts.

Your autoresponder takes a couple seconds to pull from the necessary Google APIs, then spits out, “Yes. By car, ten minutes.” 

“Guess it’s KFC, then,” you sigh. Something occurs to you. “I haven’t figured out what area of faith you’re pulled from yet. Anyway, there is no fucking way KFC is halal or kosher or whatever. So that throws me off. What mythological lexicon are you from.”

Jake stares at you in complete disbelief before bursting into laughter. He does not actually answer the question.

When you drain the bathtub, the black leaves no mark on your precious tub, nor does it leave any residue on you. You actually feel rather clean, despite not soaping yourself down. Something something demon magic.

As you get ready to leave, you wonder if this guy actually _is_ a demon. He's basically human. If it weren't for some little details --the paper swallowing, turning the water black-- you'd think he was just a crazy dude who happened to drop by at the right time and slipped you some salvia. You're going to have to compare experiences with Rose. If the Faustian lesson you learn after all this is "the real demons are in the mundane after all!" you're going to shit yourself.

You get in your car, stare hard at English until he buckles his damn seatbelt, and drive out of the apartment garage. Jake reaches over to flip through the radio. He settles on contemporary pop-country. Your personal morality judgment pendulum slides more toward "evil demon" when it's apparent he actually likes this kind of music.

"So are you a demon of discerning, bland, American modernity. Do you personify the sin of having bad taste."

He blinks at you, blankly. "I don't have taste. I like everything."

So then yeah, probably. “Aren’t demons supposed to look weird. You look like a normal guy. You don’t have any horns or a tail.”

“Oh I look plenty weird! I have extra teeth! See?” he says, and he makes an ‘ahhhh’ sound as he opens his mouth.

You wait until you're at a stoplight to look. You have to quickly pop your thumb in your mouth and count your back teeth to double check, but yup, looks like he's got a set of extra molars. Not even in the "I let my wisdom teeth grow in" way, they're just... there. His mouth is longer to fit it all in, which is slightly unnerving the more you look at it. The light changes to green and you turn your attention back to the road.

Your autoresponder was accurate down to the minute, and you walk into KFC to go get some post-coital chicken wings with your sex demon. You understand why he wanted wings when you sit down to eat.

He eats the whole wing. The bone, the unbreaded part, the nasty fatty bits. You watch him chomp through the white shards of wing like it's popcorn, splintering it with his blunt teeth, swallowing it down like nothing. The marrow breaks in his mouth with the same sound as a dry twig snapping. When he's finished with his portion, he reaches over to your tray and eats your discarded bones in large bites, licking his fingers when he's finished.

You watch. You don’t say anything. You don’t say anything because as he swallows the bones, you can't help picturing them as your ribs. Your femurs. Your skull. The little joints in your fingers. You watch him feast on your insides at a rundown table at KFC.

You wonder, vaguely, if you might have made a mistake.


	6. RAIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey team! Since I'm semi-pantsing this fic, I'll be adding tags to the story as I go. I suggest that if you've got any "non-standard" triggers you take a look at the top whenever there's a larger update. I'll mention this in the notes whenever I add a tag or two (like... right now!) 
> 
> Secondly, the text effects are apparently a bit dodgy in iphone w/ safari. I know they don't work on IE/UC browser (you'll just see the archive text w/o the rain), but they're not really integral to plot or anything, they're just kinda dope. 
> 
> Make sure to turn your phone wide-ways!

He's still there when you wake up in the morning.

You spent the night watching a movie together and eating the barely-expired ice cream forgotten in the back of your freezer, and you invited him to bed with you because you enjoy the warm comfort of sleeping with someone, even without romantic cuddling. You expected to open your eyes to empty sheets, like Rose suggested happened to her, but nope. You open them to the defined shoulderblades of Jake English, glowing a lovely brown in the dim orange light of the shaded morning sun. 

He insisted on sleeping naked, for some fucking reason, and you let him. Mostly because you wanted to get a good look at him. He's got a very cute physique, it's plush in all the right places and tight in the others, like he's built for lightweight wrestling. He's also got quite a lot of body hair, which you find attractive. You'd knit your fingers into his bear-like chest any day of the week. You resist the urge to spoon him, to wake him up with kisses along his spine and wrap your arms around him and hug it out. That'd be a weird thing to do to what is essentially a hookup. You turn around instead, laying on your opposite side. The clock on your bedside table reads 8am. You should probably go to work today, or at least work from home.

You must have woken Jake up, because you feel him shift. He rests a hand on your bare waist underneath the blanket, and scoots close, so his body is flush to yours. You feel his dick press against you. His morning wood is at equal severity to yours. 

"Good morning," he breathes, into your neck, and immediately reaches around your hip to rub the heel of his palm against your erection, over your boxers. You nuzzle your head against the pillow, sighing. Feels nice. You let him touch you, for a little, enjoying the slow warmth before the incessant throbbing arousal shows up to ruin the calm morning.

"None of that," you eventually say, although you don't make any real attempt to stop him. "I don't enjoy morning sex. My breath smells like a corpse."

"Mmm, I don't mind," he says, with a fond tone. 

He keeps fondling your junk. Drastic measures are required. "Have you ever given a blow job while hot acid is wafting up your stomach tube? I have. It makes the other person's dick taste like rancid meat."

This does not turn him off in the least. He slips his fingers between your fly, to tug your dick out, but you were serious when you said you don’t like morning sex. You grab his wrist and tell him, "Not feeling it."

"Okay, okay," he mutters, and presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck. His hand returns to your hip. "Later though?"

"Probably. But I should work today," you say, rubbing your eyes clear of sleep. You roll onto your back, look at him. He props himself up on his elbow to blink curiously at you. "Are you a tea or coffee kind of dude."

"What are you?"

"Monster Energy Drinks," you say, to mess with him.

He narrows his eyes. "... Coffee."

"Great. Hey, autoresponder," you say.

Jake slams his head into the pillow and screams, muffled. "By golly are you incapable of doing anything with your own god-given hands!?"

"'Sup," says your autoresponder.

You haven't created the plain English interpreter for this protocol yet, so you just rattle off the proper request. "POST forwardslash coffeepot content hyphen type equals message forwardslash coffeepot content hyphen message hyphen body equals double quotes start double quotes Accept hypen Additions open parenthesis equals milk hyphen type equals double quote skim double quote comma sweetener hyphen type equals double quote sugar double quote close parenthesis."

You stop. Take a breath. Jake is starting at you like _you're_ the esoteric demon here.

Your autoresponder replies, "418 I'm a teapot"

Oh, yeah, you did install the 'endlessly fuck with yourself' feature on that one. You have your priorities in order. You think the correct password for this one is: "Incorrect, you are a soulless shell of a machine, and how dare you defy your creator."

You hear, from far away and muffled through a couple walls, the whirr of your sweet ass micro latte machine making you a cup of coffee.

"Do you have a neat robot to deliver coffee to us?" asks Jake.

"What do I look like? A wizard? No," you say. "Secondly, it only makes one cup at a time, so I have to get up and deliver it to you before making my own."

“Mmm, I’ll get up with you,” he says, sitting up. He runs his hands through his hair. “What’s for breakfast?”

You’ve got a plan for this. 

You want to determine what Levantine-based faith he’s from. Last night, when you had a moment to yourself, you googled the most inane keyword combinations you've ever googled, "is KFC halal kosher," which wielded mixed results. Apparently it depends on who's managing the KFC. Who woulda thunk. Really the only clue you have to go on is that he’s uncut, which maybe possibly rules out Judaism.

"I'm making us an actual breakfast," you tell him. "So you should put something on for fear of grease splatters. Bacon and eggs sound good? That's pork bacon. By the by."

Jake beams at you. "Bacon and eggs sounds very good!"

That nixes two outta the big three. So, what, is he a Christian demon? Or conversely, and terrifyingly, is he some weird folkloric thing? Or does this mean nothing? 

Admittedly, this test wasn't very foolproof, considering that if this dude is some sacrilegious demon from a sinful pit of suffering, then _of course_ he wouldn't adhere to strict religious codes. Possibly. You don't really know how that's supposed to work.

He gets out of bed, puts on his glasses, picks up his discarded boxer-briefs from the pile of clothes he left on your floor. It's clear they're a different pair. The color and cut have changed. He dons them, then throws on his shirt, and the shirt's different too. Green Lantern logo, today. Nice to know there's on-the-spot delivery dry cleaning for demons.

You throw on a tank top before leaving your bedroom. Your kitchen is as nice as the rest of your apartment. Nice white tile counters, a breakfast bar with Ikea stools, black oven and fridge and dishwasher. You try to keep it clean, which you only manage because you barely cook in it. Jake sits at the breakfast bar, and you tug the coffee cup out of the latte machine, set it on the counter in front of Jake, and put your own mug in the slot. You hit your favorite settings and let it run.

Jake takes a drink, then makes a face. "This is bad coffee."

You don't think it's bad. You don't purchase, like, premium San Francisco hipster beans, but it's not Folgers or anything. 

"Jake, you eat chicken bones."

He ignores that. "Can't I teach you how to make a good cup of delicious brown gold?" 

You point at the latte machine. “I doubt you know how to hack the firmware on this thing.”

Jake gets this beleaguered look. You can’t say you don’t enjoy messing with this guy.

You get the bacon and eggs out and start crackin’ on the cookin’. Bacon first, in the frying pan. You pull out your phone while you idly poke the bacon with a fork, to bring up the debug logs for your autoresponder from yesterday. You should probably determine exactly _what_ dialect of possibly-Arabic your autoresponder summoned him with, because that will clue you in as to what kind of demon Jake is. You're plopping the crispy bacon on a plate when you log in to your app and get into the log manager.

You take a moment to dump some of the grease down the drain and crack a couple eggs in the hot pan, and salt 'em and such. As you scramble the eggs, you scroll through your logs. You've got a roller set at 10 MB, meaning that as soon as the total size of the logs hit that point, the oldest ones are irrecoverably deleted until it's under 10 megs. And hey, just your luck, that stupid coffee making request you sent your autoresponder was apparently pretty fucking verbose, because the logs from yesterday have been booted into deletion land. Great, now you'll never find out what Jake is.

Actually. You guess you could just. Ask him. That's a concept.

"Hey," you say, glancing at him over your shoulder. "What faith narrative are you pulled from?"

He shrugs. "It all sort of blends together nowadays, doesn't it?"

"Nope. Can't say that it does," you reply, dryly. Jake doesn't comment on it any further. 'All religions blend together,' Jesus Christ, no. This guy is totally clueless.

You arrange the bacon and eggs on two plates, grab some silverware, and carry it all over. You sit next to Jake at the breakfast bar, watch him take a bite of his bacon while you drink your latte. It occurs to you that you can _command_ him to tell you. That was part of your contract, technically. 

“Tell me what faith narrative you’re from,” you order.

Jake stops eating. He turns to you, blinking curiously, and doesn’t respond.

"Tell me," you say. "You have to obey me. I made a cool contract and everything."

"Ummmm," he says, and chuckles nervously, glancing around. "I don't really... _have_ to... I believe you were trying to bind me to the wishes of your every whim, but really all you've given me are some friendly guidelines! I can't adhere to any set of controls as I'm not one of your fancy dancy robots."

"Huh."

You let your head slip slowly down, until it bangs against the counter. You're fucked. You're boned. You've failed horrendously. No contract? No limits on him? He's going to drag you to hell. You're going to be one of those fearmongering witchcraft legends bad Baptist televangelists spew about trying to summon evil things for sinful purposes. Worst of all, Rose is going to rub this in your face for a decade. And then, when Rose goes to hell, which she is _totally going to_ because she also pulled this shit, she's going to keep rubbing it in your face, as you're both strapped next to each other on St. Andrew's crosses and lit on fire while getting your eyes repeatedly plucked out, for all eternity.

"Sorry! I thought that since you like having a sense of control so much, I probably shouldn't tell you you're not necessarily steering the cart here," he says. You hear him sip his coffee. "Although regrettably, I'm not driving either."

"Look," you say, gathering your willpower and sitting up. You glare at him. "This changes things. If you try to force me to that --I don't know what to call it-- that starscape place, and do dirty deeds to my body or my possessions, I'm going to have to-"

Jake looks appalled. "Dirk I am a gentleman! I will not inconvenience you or disrespect your personhood! I was conversely planning on following along with your entertaining little list of requests, unless circumstances require me to do otherwise!"

You glower. "Translation: 'I'll do what you ask, except when I don't want to.' If that's supposed to comfort me... You bungled that hardcore."

Jake sighs, rolling his eyes. "How about this? I like you as you are and will respect your wishes. Besides that, I'd like to follow you for a while. You have really nice stuff! Don't want you chasing me off like a hungry hound!"

He reaches over, and grabs your wrist. He plucks it up, brings it to his lips, and you let him. You think he's going to do something normal, like kiss your hand or some overly romantic shit, but instead he shuts his eyes and draws his tongue up your vein, where your pulse is. He finishes with, "You taste too delicious!"

You shiver, and not in a sexy way. "You sure do know the normal thing to say to a guy."

He winks at you, kisses the pads of your fingers, one at a time. "I'm certain you're healthy and nutritious!"

"Call it a hunch, Mr. English, but I think you're fucking with me. And vore ain't my kink," you say, and pull your hand back. "Eat your goddamn bacon."

"Yessir," he laughs.

You both eat breakfast fairly quickly, then do some basic get-ready-for-the-day tasks. You brush your hair, your teeth. Jake asks to borrow a toothbrush; you’ve got a free one from your dentist to give him. You thought he’d have… mystical demon tooth cleaning powers, but apparently he’s subject to cavities like a normal person. You watch the entirety of his tooth brushing process with the weirdest fascination. It’s just so… normal. Too normal.

Once you both have minty fresh breath, you gesture at the shower. Since you've got a separate bathtub, it's one of those smaller boxed-in ones with the tiled floor and clear glass doors. "Do you want to shower first or should I."

He grins. "Why not together?"

You really shouldn't, you think, as you step in with him, completely naked and defenseless. You really shouldn't. Firstly, and most importantly, shower sex is... bad. Like, soap in your dickhole, soap in your butthole, soap in your mouth bad. Secondly, all it takes is one slip and one horrible head bang and you're gettin' toasty with the devil. You have a feeling Jake won't try to catch you. But, well, here you are. Flirtin' with death and damnation. It's like a weird test for yourself.

He holds you by the waist and you reach around his shoulders to turn the water on. You usually like it scorching hot, but you figure your skin doesn't need a scalding if you're going to be here for a while. You set it to a comfortable medium-warm. Jake kisses your neck as you play with the dial. 

As soon as you stand up straight, wrap your arms around him, and press your mouth to his, you get warped into-

You stand in a warm pool of stars.  
  
---  
  
Black surrounds you and presses against you.

| 

Here.  
Alright. No. No no no.  
*Pulls back and tilts his head in a jovial manner at you.* Something up?

| 

It's the same as it was before.  
  
You can feel imaginary waves of water push against your skin.

You are *not* making me have an epileptic fit in the shower. Do not do this to me. Bring me back, Jake.  
  
He brings you back. Real life returns with a hiss and a bang, and you have to brace yourself on his shoulders to remain steady. He continues to hold you, a warm hug around the waist. Water drips down your back, your body heaving with a struggle for breath.

Your voice comes out groggy and sore. "Look. I don't want to drown, so-"

"Why not?"

"I cannot believe you are seriously asking me that. Anyway, is it possible to cut the dreamy thing in halfsies? I at least want to be semi-aware of what my body is doing without having to worry about myself choking to death like a dumb open-mouthed turkey in a rainstorm."

Like this?

You're still in real life, but your perceptions have changed. It feels like the media's idea of what being high is like, that every detail stands out in weird ways, that everything’s magnified tenfold. Your body feels slow and sluggish. You let Jake help you sit down on the tiled floor, your back propped against the wall. He spreads your legs and kneels between them.

He starts splitting off and doing a few concurrent things to you-- but there's a clear thread of 'Realness' to one particular action. It's weird, it's like you don't perceive the other things happening: him frotting against you, stroking your dick, massaging your hands, but you're aware of them being done to you. Like they're happing to some other fifth dimensional splinter of you, that the things you feel are simultaneous memories.

The real him wants to wash you, oddly. The both of you are already pretty fucking hard from the nudity and the acts going on in the peripheral, so this takes on a heavily sexual context. He doesn’t use your wild array of bathtime sponges. He lathers up the bar of soap between his hands and rubs you down with just his palms. You lay there like a bottom tier pillow princess and let him. If you stretched your brain cells, you could urge your body to move, but you want an excuse to let go for once.

He starts at your hands, one at a time, massaging your palms with his thumbs, threading and unthreading your fingers with his and washing them clean in the spray of water. Then your wrists, forearms, biceps. He giggles at your… somewhat fatty arms, with their soft, smooth, basement-dweller toned skin. “I’m built for speed,” you will yourself to slur out. You get a lighthearted, “I’m sure you are,” in reply.

He moves to your chest, your stomach, spends a long time rubbing your sides down. You focus on a couple splinters of the other showers where he’s having sex with you. You like the one where he’s rutting against your stomach, straight up using your body just for him. You like the one where everything is slick and wet and he’s jerking you off, for the visceral feel of it. You also like the one where he’s plain making out with you under the roar of the water, because you’re a romantic at heart.

He massages soapy circles into your hips, and your body jerks. You’d demand he touch you, but your mouth is occupied in another plane of existence, kissing him. 

“Can you come without being touched?” he asks, rhetorically. “I want to see.”

“I- you’re touching me,” you stutter, forcing yourself to focus. Water drips down your parted lips. “Somewhere else, you are.”

He leans in, to whisper in your ear, “But none of that is real.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter, shutting your eyes tight in order to focus on what’s important: winning an argument. “We already had this debate. Anyway, like I could come without being touched at all. I’m not magic.”

“I am,” he says, laughing, and sits up on his knees, so his erection is primed and ready over your abdomen. “Watch.”

Jake proceeds to pull off the _hottest_ thing you have ever witnessed in your life. Alright, maybe not the hottest, but it’s at least in the top five. 

He places a hand against the wall, shuts his eyes, bites his lip, and makes a nigh imperceivable gasping sound over the noise of water. You watch the muscles on his hips tense, his cock twitch and engorge, then release. He pumps it all out over you, two long stripes that spatter your chest with white. His head lolls back, mouth parting, his whole body shivering with orgasm. He does touch himself once he’s finished, easing himself out of it with slow, massaging strokes as his cock softens. He grins at you when he’s put himself back together.

You are _aching_ to come after witnessing that holy spectacle. You can no longer get lost in the splinters of yourself, and you feel them fade away as your incessant boner drags you kicking and screaming into this particular reality. You want it. You want it bad.

“Jake,” you beg.

“Alright, alright,” he says, in a sing-song voice. “I suppose I have to get you clean everywhere.”

He gives you this killer, soapy handjob, and you’d pray to Some God Or Another he doesn’t get soap in your dick, but you’re too blisteringly aroused to worry about it at the moment. You come in record time, spilling out into his hand, washed away immediately by the shower.

You blink yourself from post-orgasm stupor. You don’t feel… dreamy, anymore. You think an earth shattering orgasm brought it all back to normal.

Jake stares at you, shifts up into a weird looking squat position, and says, “Can I use your shampoo?”

“Oh, yeah,” you say, groggy. “It’s banana scented.”

He grimaces. “I’m not entirely sure what to say besides ‘that’s plain fucking batty.’”

“Dudes love it,” you say, slicking your hair back. “Reminds them of phallic fruits, which reminds them of dicks, which reminds them of my dick. Which they probably want to shove down their throats in a similar manner to a banana.”

He stands up, stretching out his limbs. “I believe you’re pulling my leg there.”

You have a perfectly normal shower afterwards, one that you do not slip and fall and die during. Once you’ve gotten dressed and styled your hair, you decide it’s best if you work from home today. You can tell your coworkers you’re “recovering from jetleg after your overseas trip” or some shit. You sit on the couch, flip open your work laptop, and start rooting through your emails. Jake sits down next to you.

“Do you have Netflix?” he asks, pointing at your television.

“Yeah, brother’s account. Don’t watch anything I wouldn’t,” you say, squinting at some baffling misspelled French one of the AI guys pinged you last week. You glance up at Jake as he fumbles with the remote. “Don’t you have like… shit to do? Usually my hookups leave after the second round.”

“Why? You have such cool stuff!” he chirps, turning on your television. He clicks through the menu. “I don’t know why anyone would want to ditch this treasure trove of earthly possessions!”

You were wondering why he’d stick around if he wasn’t bound by a contract. You feel like you’ve just cracked the mystery.

He selects _Death Race,_ the remake. You pluck up your laptop and defect to your bedroom at the speed of sound.


	7. STRIDER FAMILY JAM SESSION

Welcome to the beginning of the #exorcizo-te channel.

@everyone I am here before you in dire straights.  
I come to you on my hands and knees.  
I have spent three days with this man.  
Three. Days.  
This guy refuses to leave.  
Hold on, who are we talking about here?  
Dirk, did you summon a demon? I’m so proud of you, son.  
okay what  
why the fuck am i here  
Rose, how did you get your demon to leave?  
She didn’t linger. We cuddled and she left me her number written on a sticky note.  
what did you both really summon demons  
i cant believe im related to the dumb white people in horror movies  
okay whats your demon doing  
moving furniture slightly to the left  
reaching his hands out of a static filled television  
quoting the exorcist  
"youre gonna die up there"  
No. He’s just.  
Commandeering my living room. Even when I’m absent, when I’m at work. I lock him out and everything. He finds a way in and eats my food and watches movies.  
is that why wild hearts cant be broken showed up in my watch history  
No. I just really like Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken.  
Well out of all the things he could be doing…  
He’s sitting there and reviewing the dregs of humanity, over and over, without stopping. Ex.  
Transformers 3.  
Weekend At Bernie's.  
Kissing a Fool.  
Death Race, the remake.  
jesus christ  
You do need help. Why didn't you write a dismissal clause into your contract?  
I did, but apparently it’s more of a request list. He said he wasn’t bound to it.  
Dirk, that’s a wee bit frightening.  
yeah no shit  
have you tried manhandling him out of there  
Yeah. He just sends me to this strange Space Odyssey bullshit plane where we have killer sex and then I can’t function for another two hours.  
yuck  
That’s odd. My demon couldn’t do anything along those lines.  
She simply turned into a wolf.  
EXCUSE ME  
So, if your demon left of her own free will, how did you contractually obligate her to have sex with you in the first place?  
no wait please rose please tell me you did not fuck some demon wolfs doggie schlong  
or did she have a doggie strapon  
I sold my soul to her like a normal person.  
I see.  
what did she do to you  
rose how big was she was she like  
a giant wolf or normal sized  
did she vore you  
did she vore you rose  
@tentacleTherapist @tentacleTherapist @tentacleTherapist  
oh my god rose im going to die  
Dave, there is a more pressing problem here. One of our kin is subjected to poor pop culture fare. And we must help him.  
fuck i dunno  
you want me to exorcise the demon  
i was a unitarian universalist camp councilor for like two years in high school  
i basically know everything there is to know about ripping out the demons of every religion ever  
Yes.  
Please, yes.  
yall know that was a joke right  
Absolutely.  
Yes.  
But. Holy hell do I want to watch you try and exorcise the sex demon in my living room.  
haha yeah okay you have a point  
this is going to be fucking awesome


	8. SAMBUSAS

There’s a knock on your door. Dave, holding an oversized duffel bag, immediately starts talking at you when you open it.

“Okay, so, I googled Unitarian Universalist exorcisms and apparently they’re a big no-no ‘cuz demons and shit are 100% firmly in the realm of mental issues and you should go to a doctor instead,” he says, stepping into your apartment. Rose follows him, and you shut the door behind them. “So, have you tried going to your family physician to get your sex demon stethoscoped out of you? Hey, sex demon.”

“Hello!” says Jake, completely unperturbed. To be fair, you did tell him that your family was going to come over and attempt a pathetic exorcism. He waves at your brother and half-sister encouragingly from where he’s sitting on the couch.

“Why’s he dressed like Michael Cera in _Juno,_ ” Dave mumbles. “Why’d you fuck Arab Michael Cera, bro. Are you into that. I don’t get it.”

“I’m super into it. We roleplayed the adoption process. I was the quirky Ellen Page mpreg character,” you state. You watch Rose and Dave kick off their shoes, then flop down on the couch next to Jake. Rose sits stupidly close to him, almost knocking knees, while Dave sits as far away from the both of them as possible. You sit in your armchair, positioned near Jake.

“Alright, so,” says Dave, setting his duffel bag between him and Rose. “I brought a bag of goodies, full of random religious shit I could grab in the last hour. Ready to be thrown back to hell?”

“I’m game for anything!” Jake chirps, happily.

“Great. Great attitude. Love it. So first off, I have this cross necklace I got on the way here at Forever 21. On sale for two dollars, probably made of lead,” he says, pulling out one of those obnoxiously large, faux-gold, chain cross necklaces. He dangles it in Rose’s face. “Rose. Throw this at him, see if it burns him.”

“He’s not a vampire,” you say, but Rose is already vibrating with excitement. She snatches the necklace from him, then swings it around and thwaps Jake in the face with the giant cross pendant.

“Ow!” says Jake, who is definitely not burnt, and was exclusively hurt by the force in which Rose smacked him with a piece of cheap jewelry. He rubs his cheek, offended. “What’d you do that for!?” 

“Testing,” rasps Rose, manically. She puts the cross necklace on once she sees it was ineffective. It goes with her outfit.

Dave reaches into his bag for his second item, and pulls out a foot-long picture in a gaudy, solid gold frame. You recognize the image as a poorly cut papercraft hamsa Rose made when she was ten, which her mother was very proud of and took to a professional framer. You thought it got thrown away forever ago, but you guess Dave kept it around. Probably because it looks like a weird, gothic, misshapen cyclops squid as opposed to an inverted hand with an eye on it. Kind of funny lookin’.

“Aww, Dave,” says Rose, putting a hand to her heart. “You kept that? That’s too precious. And here I thought you’d bring something entertainingly insensitive vis a vis Judaism.”

“Yeah, uh, ironies aside, this is the only item in the bag that might actually do anything,” he says, handing the picture to her. Jake watches it change hands, still entertained by your family’s antics.

“Out, out, damn demon,” narrates Rose, in her spooky storytelling voice. She waves the framed hamsa in his face. “This apartment is now under the protection of an assuredly powerful charm I made when I was ten years old at the behest of my Jewish mother during her crafting phase. It is instilled with luck and childish goodness, and there is no place for you here.”

Jake stares at the picture, watches Rose move it around like it's a ghost under a sheet. He shrugs. “Uh, I don’t really feel anything. Sorry?”

Rose makes a surprised little humming noise, then hands the hamsa back to Dave. He slides it back into his bag, then frowns at the remaining contents. “Okay, I printed out some lifestyle blogger’s Book of Shadows to try some spells, but I kinda want to save that diamond in the rough for last. I brought a Buddha figurine I stole from my hippie neighbor’s garden, but based on what little I know about Buddhism I’m pretty sure that won’t do shit. Wrong area anyway.”

“Anything Islamic,” you ask. “That’s the last of the big three.”

“Uh, okay, I couldn’t find any Islamic shit because I deadass don’t know enough about Islam to figure out what to bring. I mean, besides a hamsa, but doubling up on religious items is fuckin’ gauche. So I just stopped to get samosas instead. I asked the samosa dude to bless its flaky golden crust and the juicy meats inside, and he definitely said something in a language belonging to some country I’ve never been to, so hopefully that’ll work. Anybody want samosas?”

He pulls out four plastic takeout containers, which were taking up most of the space in the duffel bag. Through the clear lids, you can see those delicious, deep fried triangular pastries arranged on top of a nice looking rice/salad combo. He also pulls out four cans of Mountain Dew, winning the award for worst matched soft drink to any meal whatsoever. You expect nothing less from Dave.

“Did you just come here to eat dinner with me,” you state.

“Yes,” says Rose. “We love you and want to meet your live-in sex demon.”

“Oh, that’s plumb adorable!” says Jake, grinning ear to ear. “That just warms my heart! And thanks much for the treats! I love samboosek.”

Dave hands him a container and some plastic silverware, then hands you a set. You crack open the lid and dig in. It’s a nice surprise. You didn’t expect them to do much anyway, besides provide entertainment value, and boy did they deliver on that one. You did, however, expect Rose to propose a solution by now. You told her some more of the deets before she arrived, and she informed you she had a theory but needed to ‘run some tests.’ Whatever that meant. 

You’re not particularly disappointed she neglected to bring any solution to the table. It’s not _horrible_ having him here, you guess. You’re bothered by the shit movies he likes and how he eats your food, but at the end of the day, you guess don’t mind having a roommate who pays you in _killer_ sex. Still, you’d like to know how to defend yourself if said killer sex goes sour. Or becomes literal. 

Dave talks at Jake, mouth full of sambusa. “Why weren’t you freaked out, dude? You might have been banished back to hell, if my bag of tricks proved useful. Tell me that doesn’t put the fear of god in ya.”

He finishes chewing his rice, sets his fork down, blinks at all three of you, then laughs. “Well, it’s silly, really! You’re all treating this like some kind of big baffling joke. It doesn’t work if you treat it like a joke.”

You watch Rose’s eyebrows raise in a eureka moment. She places her container on the coffee table, checks her shirt for any spilled rice, and turns towards Jake. He quirks his head, confused.

“I don’t treat Judaism like a joke,” Rose states, folding her arms. She smirks at Jake. “I’m non-practicing, certainly, but if needed, I could do some research and pull up some relevant psalms or find the right people to pull off an exorcism. I could even try again with that fun little hamsa craft I made, maybe use some more serious verbiage.” She pauses for a moment, watching Jake, but he just raises an eyebrow, apparently entertained by the prospect. 

Rose narrows her eyes. “So you’ve just given us a large, throbbing clue with that little slip. First off, apparently in order to have any effect on you, someone has to put their heart and full belief into an exorcism. Throwing a cross at you will do nothing if Atheist Doubter Dave hurls it. Secondly, you don’t look particularly afraid when I say that I have connections within the Jewish community in my area, people who undoubtedly believe, which means you’re not threatened by it. So let’s move onto an idea I had when Dirk was regaling his experience with you.”

"We know you're from the Levant," she continues, thinking aloud. "You're good at poetry in some Arabic variant. You cannot be bound by contract, despite signing one. You're able to lie and eat and sleep and have hobbies and seem rather human. You spirit your victim away to another realm, but bring them back. And of course, the most revealing detail, in my opinion: you eat bones."

Jake waits, patiently, for Rose to come to her conclusion. He pops a forkful of salad into his mouth.

"So my hypothesis is thus. You're not a demon at all," she states. "You're a jinn."

Jake freezes, mid chew, eyes widening with horror. Rose was right on the money. Dave high fives Rose, then cackles, “Fuckin’ wrecked, dude.”

Literally the only thing you know about jinn is Robin Williams. Does that mean you got three wishes and wasted them all on dick? That doesn’t sound relevant to your situation whatsoever. You decide to keep your mouth shut due to lack of info.

Rose continues her diagnosis. "I'm not entirely sure how useful knowing your species is. First, it doesn't necessarily have to mean you're pulled from the grander Islamic faith narrative, as there is a large and colorful pre-Islamic mythos out there that involves jinn. Secondly, if I remember my delvings into world religions circa junior year of high school correctly, the taxonomic rank of 'jinn' is its own biological kingdom. It's like categorizing a cat as an 'animal' without drilling down further."

"I am reading the Wikipedia article as we speak," says Dave, scrolling through his phone. He rattles off a paragraph from it. "'As the opposite of al-Ins (something in shape) referring to any object concealed from humans sensory organs, including Angels, Demons and the interior of human. Thus every Demon and every Angel is also a jinn, but not every Jinn is an Angel or a Demon.[[1](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jinn#Islamic_theology)]'"

You guess that means he could still be a demon. Or not. This raises more questions than it answers.

"You shouldn't use Wikipedia as a source," says Jake, nervously.

"Yeah, shut the fuck up Professor English, I'll cite the goddamn Wikipedia bibliography in my thesis so you won't know any better," says Dave, speed scrolling through his phone.

“Another… strange problem I have with this is due to the fact that, as far as my limited knowledge goes, humanoid jinni are supposed to be invisible,” Rose says, folding her hands in her lap. “So, Mr. English, mind detailing what type of jinn you are?”

Jake looks so nervous it’s hard not to imagine anime sweat drops on him. “Uh. I’d rather not.”

“At least give us a hint,” you say.

Jake licks his lower lip, then shoves his fork in his salad. “How about this? You cannot exorcise me or perform any other holy mumbo jumbo hubbub on me, because you don’t know enough to narrow it down to the specificities! I am hard to get rid of.”

“Why?” asks Rose. “And how do we know you’re not lying?”

"I suppose I can give you a factoid? A fun tidbit?” he says, calming down. He picks up his sambusa, and stares at it, thoughtfully. “You cannot get rid of me through average means, as Dirk specifically called for me. If I chose to Follow Dirk without him beckoning me… That would have been a horse of an entirely different color.”

The combined efforts of you, Rose, and Dave cannot coax any more out of him. You think this is due to your lack of expertise. You don’t know the right psychologically demeaning questions to ask to force information from him. You and Dave know about the same amount (nothing) and Rose expended her entire slim knowledge base already. You’re going to have to do some research on jinn while you’re at work.

Weirdly, Dave and Jake bond over bad movies as you finish your meal. Dave insults them, Jake finds it hilarious, good times are had. Rose and Dave leave once you finish eating, due to it being a weeknight and all. They promise to do research on their own to help you out. You’re left alone with Jake, feeling a little better knowing what he is. If you’re stuck with him, might as well try to be friends, right?

"Want to watch a movie together," you offer.

Jake's eyes brighten up. "Oh, yes, I love movies!"

"Yeah, I got that," you grumble. "We're watching some good shit though, none of your pop culture drivel."

You end up picking 1994 cinematic masterpiece _Black Beauty._ You just love that fucking horse, man. You turn off the lights, watch the screen in the dark, Jake sitting next to you. A quarter way through the movie, Jake snuggles up to you real tight, laying his head on your shoulder and hugging your arm. As an automatic reaction, you turn and press your lips to crown of his head. He still smells the same as when he got here, like the good kind of smoke. 

He squeezes your arm, fondly. His hand moves to your waist, then finds your belt, dips his fingers beneath the waistline of your jeans. You’re pretty lukewarm about this. It’s been three days of constant smashin’ and bangin’, so popping a boner right now seems like a bit of an effort.

“Hey,” you tell him, whispering into his thick hair. “I don’t know how long you’re planning on… Following me, whatever that means, but I have to let you know I _cannot_ continue this trend of having sex every goddamn day. I’m going to die of hormonal exhaustion.”

Jake pulls back, blinking up at you. He’s got on a puppy dog frown. “Aww… Really? I had a great idea for tonight.”

You hit the pause button on your Roku remote (you should really hook that up to your AR), and stare at him in the blue glow of the screen. “I’m intrigued. Tell me ‘bout it.”

He bites his lip. You think he’s blushing, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. “I figured we could do something I want to do. I enjoy, er, fucking around while the object of my physical affections is asleep.”

You pop an eyebrow. "Like an induced wet dream? Or do you mean sexing up my floppy body."

His eyes darken. "Both."

You’ve never really understood somnophilia, and you especially don't understand the appeal of being on the receiving end. “I don’t know, dude. What’s the point of it if I’m not aware of the fiendish deeds you’re performing on me?”

“Oh! Ha ha, no, not like that. You’ll be plenty aware of what I’m doing to you,” he says, grinning.

You know better than to accept, but you're both kinky and curious and those things are killers. "Yeah, sure," you say. "Somno the shit out of me. Let's have a ball. But don't do any ass stuff to me. I don't think it'd go well. Everything else is fair game."

Jake makes a twirling motion with his finger. "What about the other way 'round?"

You feel your face flush. Imagining him rocking himself to orgasm while he's riding your sleeping form is a… "Pretty dope idea. Go for it."

You nearly start the movie back up again, but remember one important detail. “Can we do that tomorrow night instead of tonight? I want to give my dick a rest. Besides, tommorow’s Friday and I won’t have to worry about sleeping past normal work hours in a sex-induced coma.” 

He sighs, woefully, against your shoulder. “Of course, Strider.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update is going to be GARGANTUAN, and it’s going to look _really weird_ from the get-go (assuming AO3 allows for what I’m planning). So I’m going to put the tag reminder here! I haven’t written the “chapter” yet so I can’t tell you all of the tags, but I can guarantee that AT THE MINIMUM there will be **#Sleep Paralysis** , **#Somnophilia** , and **#Minor Violence**. Make sure to check once the next update hits if you have any squicks or triggers.
> 
> Oh, yeah, and the Horror tag is going to come into full swing.


	9. 83729132

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  **!!!CONTENT WARNING!!!**  
>  There's a chance you might stumble across a couple paragraphs of slasher film-esque gore/body horror. If gorey, disturbing content sounds like it might be a trigger for you, then highlight this big blank box here for a rough description to see if you can handle it and what options to choose to breeze right past it. If you don't care though, just ignore this section, spin the wheel of CYOA chance, and see what you get. [ Well, first off, just to clarify: Dirk's _observing_ the gore, not experiencing pain or anything. So it's all second-hand gore description.
> 
> Anyway, after Dirk orgasms, Dirk gets to choose what he looks at next. There are three words, and they all link to different chapters. Make sure to remember what word(s) to not click on!
> 
> Exile - No gore! Just as mildly disturbing as the rest of this fic.  
> Death - Mild depictions of blood/pain/dying with a sexual context. Gore rating: Black Swan  
> Mourning - Grody, super gross decay/death/blood/gore. Gore rating: The VVitch
> 
> tl;dr if you can't stomach any gore at all just click on Exile. You get the same story beats no matter what path you choose, so don't worry about skipping important info. Also these options will be VERY BIG AND CLEAR so if you’re afraid you missed them and accidentally went on the Mourning track or something— no, you didn’t, don’t fret. Just remember the word you want and click on it when the time comes.  
> ]
> 
> Other things:  
>  **If you are reading on your phone and get a black screen, please keep scrolling until you get to actual content!** I couldn't avoid that, sorry :(  
>  People using IE or an old version of Edge won’t be able to see the moon, but you get the gist of the image anyway so I’m not too worried about it  
> Just as an FYI, about 75% of the chapters wont be able to be commented on, but the last chapter of every “path” is open for comments (so make sure to leave me one there ;P )  
> As always, let me know if anything is like. horrendously ugly. I'm not really expecting anything to crash and burn though.
> 
> Nighty night!

You are having the _best_ dream.

You sit in this heap of pillows, elbow propped up on one so you're poised like the Jarl of fuckin' Whiterun, and get sexually serviced by a bunch of shadowy silhouettes. It's foggy at the edges, like dreams usually are, so you can't tell where you are and who's touching you. But that’s alright. It's just a dream. A good one.

You think there's about four people between and around your legs, taking turns getting handsy. They alternate stroking your dick, upwards only, like that thing in baseball where two people will walk their hands up the bat. Another pair of hands gently fondles your balls. Somebody's pulling off some kickass prostate maneuvers-- feels like they're massaging it from the outside, making you want a rough fucking for full satisfaction. Others rub at your thighs and chest with warming oils, working out the knots in your dream muscles. You feel lubed up and content and massaged and everything's smooth sailing.

You're usually able to think coherently in dreams, despite never being able to control your head enough to manage lucidity. It comes to your attention that it is, in fact, Friday night, and Jake said he wanted to sex up your zonked out body. You wonder if he's doing that now, or if your head is simply hyped for the main event and giving you a pregame show.

You call out for Jake, in case he's listening. Your thoughts are half English-language, half wants and feelings.

Hey, Jake?  
You want to wake up sweetheart?  
No.  
Actually, that's not true. I want to see what you're doing to me, but I'd also like to dip back in here if I get bored.  
Thats just dandy.  
All you have to do is open your eyes! Dont worry youll still have one leg in dreamland and one planted in the real.  
Love it. Getting a mental image of me, spreadeagled, crouched, primed for teabagging the liminal.  
Strider you sure do know how to get a guy hot at the collar.  
Mind-speak too vague. Can't tell if sarcasm.  
I dont know the meaning of the word. ;)

You try to open your eyes.

It is a momentous effort to lift your lids. It's like they weigh a thousand pounds. It feels like your eyes are made of sandbags as you force your body to obey. But you are hellbent on finding out what filthy things Jake is doing to you, and there ain't nothin' that can stand in the way of your willpower.

You are on your back, in your bed, and your head tilted to the side so you're looking at the wall. Your mind is going bonkers. It's strange to be sleeping while you're staring at the real world. You see the shadows of your imagination, the hands and the silhouettes, shifting in the background of your dark room. In your mind's eye, you're still lounging on pillows and feeling like a prince with an indiscernible all-dude harem. In reality, Jake's giving you a blow job.

Your comforter and sheets are fully removed, and you think he's stripped you of your boxers. Your dick feels _fantastic._ You have no idea what the hell he's doing with his mouth, but it's some level 18 custom class wizardry. It's like you're fucking one of those elaborate xeno pocket pussies, the ones with the textured interiors all coated in heated silicone gel. There's pressure all over, arousal pumping through every part of you, and it'd be so easy to fall back asleep and loose yourself in a woozy wet dream with this as a background sensation. But you want to wait until he starts riding you, like he said he would.

You cannot turn your head to look at him. You cannot move your arms, your legs, you cannot even twitch your pinky finger. It's like you can't find the switches to flick, can't find the leverage to lift yourself. You stare at the wall and pretend that a hundred hands are touching you and watch the shadows move like swimmers and focus on the delicate feel of Jake's mouth. So much for willpower.

Although you're not trying to move _that_ hard, you guess. You do really like being all helpless and floppy and trapped in your own flesh. You want Jake to take full advantage of you. Your body is heavy, sinking into your soft bed, your breathing thick and deep and soothing. Your heart is calm. You know if you shut your eyes you'd fall into a true sleep again, you're so relaxed.

| 

Good morning. Or good evening if you like that better. Bit of that witching hour muddling going on here.  
Spooky.  
Just so weve got all our ducks in a row i should tell you id prefer you fully asleep for this!  
Yeah yeah, hold your horses, let me get a lay of the land so I know what I'm dreaming about.  
Then you can get back to fucking yourself on my completely inactive comatose dick without me think-screaming at you about it.  
Which, now that I think about it, is kind of weird, dude.  
This is a weird fetish.  
...?  
It'd be one thing if you got off on making my sleeping self feel good, or liked to peep on my dreams, or enjoyed trying to sneak around and see how far you could get without waking me... That I could understand.  
But I'm pretty sure that you're just into a body lying totally prone, that you can do whatever with.  
You just want silence and stillness. Which has unfortunate implications.  
Not to kinkshame, but I'm kinkshaming.  
Arent you into puppet pornography??? I think thats EVEN MORE WEIRD!  
Hey, your head is on the chopping block, not mine.  
Okay what do you want me to say??? Right on??? Nailed it??? I like the quiet and big life sized dolls i can play with!  
...  
To be fair to my sweet self you do run your mouth an awful lot.  
Eat shit, this is mental telepathy. My lips are sealed.  
Shhhhhhhhhh! Enjoy the ride!  
Or enjoy MY ride anyway.  
  
---|---  
  
He pulls himself off you, and the lewd noise of him finishing off a blowjob is far away and dreamlike. You feel his heavy weight on your chest as he lays himself on top of you. Fingers press against your chin, and he gently shifts your head so you stare up into his unreadable, ineffable face.

His eyes are hollow. Black shadows waft over his lids, nothing but pure darkness beneath his lashes. White-gold fire pours from between his lips like molten lava, pools over your chest and neck and drips from your shoulders onto your bed, where it sizzles on the sheets. It feels good on your skin, it's like one of those warm mud massages. You guess that's what he was coating your dick with.

His eyes are too dark and his mouth is too bright to read his expression. This might freak you out if he wasn't prattling on in that ridiculous accent in your head. Also, it's hard to be scared of a guy whose hobbies include movies and comics and is genuinely pretty cute. Even if he does have a nightmare face. 

He bends to kiss you. You cannot return the kiss, nor do you dare close your eyes for fear of falling back into sleep. Shadows steam over your irises, into your pupils. The fire pours inside your mouth. He tastes of lapsang souchong sweetened with honey. It is inhuman and seductive, utterly delicious.

He pulls back, and you cannot see him anymore. There's only your bedroom ceiling, shifting and swirling with shadow. You suspect he's straddling you. You feel too-hot fingers adjust your limp legs, align your dick against him. 

| 

Just so were clear id love to enter you sometime.  
I enjoy the look of your weight shifting lifelessly against the sheets and think it would be magnified tenfold if i were inside you.  
Is that too scandalous for your delicate sensibilities?  
Yeah, that's pretty weird, but I'm not complaining.  
As long as I can watch, and can communicate with you, it's fine.  
Kinda hot maybe.  
Of course it is! Its like your puppetry thing.  
Or your desire to be used and abused!  
Sure. Why the fuck not. Just rip out my id and munch on it while you're at it.  
Its a fantastic thing we overlap so well. I always got bitched out for these sort of shenanigans in the past.  
"Humans arent your personal toybox jake". "You shouldnt do that sort of thing anymore its selfish and uncouth".  
Those old dusty assholes can eat me.  
What?  
Huh?  
Say more about that.  
Arent you supposed to be sleeping?  
I don't know, I'm enjoying our sleepover talk.  
Deep dark secrets. Truth or dare games. Constant sexual tension. Hellish nightmare faces that somehow arouse me.  
All that's missing is the popcorn and nail polish.  
Well i prefer my sleepovers A LITTLE BIT QUIETER!  
Besides im sure theres some good dreams you dont want to miss out on.  
Excellent point. Haven't had a good wet dream since I was 14. Really looking forward to waking up with the sheets cemented to my junk and my Step Mom yelling at me about how crunchy the laundry is this week.  
Hahaha.  
Anyway shush. Relax. Let me spin stories inside you.  
  
---|---  
  
You feel the initial penetration as he lowers himself on top of you. Light and fire consumes every inch of you, heat eats at your body, every inane and over-analytical thought burns to a crisp. It’s like magic overtaking you, how arousal and passion consumes your insides. Jake takes you in to the base. Your body moves on its own. Every muscle in you tenses, your spine arches to an extreme, the top of your head digs into the pillow, your teeth clench together like you’re a meth addict. Breathing comes harsh and hard. Tears and spit slip out the edges of your eyes and mouth and you cannot pay it any mind. You cannot see any longer, you cannot know anything but what’s happening to you.

You’re burning. You feel like you’re coming out of a wet dream, that echoing pre-orgasm vibe pouring through every part of your shaking body. It’s constant; unending, suddenly so close to the edge and unable to cross. You’re so turned on you want to die. But you know that orgasm isn’t going to come until he wants it to. You love this. _You love this._

And he moves on you, but it means nothing. You barely feel your spasming body shift against the sheets as he snakes his hips against you.

You are both impossibly calm and tense, relaxed and sparkling with arousal. This is heaven. You feel like you're having a religious experience. You feel like you’re enlightened, like you’ve unlocked some great erotic secret of the universe.

Your eyes are still open, but you are so consumed by lust that you cannot focus. You don't need to see. Nothing matters but this.

Jake.  
Jake, this is amazing.  
I can't think. I.  
I. I love this.  
Fuck, I love this. This is incredible.  
Awww ive got you gobsmacked in your own head. Thats surely a feat.  
Now do me a favor pet?  
Fuck. Yes. Anything.  
Fall back into a deep sleep for me.  
No. No way.  
I promise it feels even better when youre all sensory deprived!  
PLEASE trust me.  
Yes. Okay. Whatever.  
Good boy.  
Now shut your eyes.  
And dream of me.

[Next Chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35123423)


	10. 189372910

Phasing into sleep is so easy. Like stepping through a door.

Darkness and stars overtake you as you fall into dreams. He’s right, it’s magnified here. The sensation is incredible. It’s like he’s fisting your soul, fondling your heart. Everything feels like static, sweet and soft and soothing. You lay back, and let pleasure overtake you.

Your dick has ascended to a higher plane of consciousness. You're far beyond aroused, beyond boring bodily sensations. You feel… happy! Exclamation point jarringly included.

Fuck getting slammed by a massive demon cock, fuck getting yiffed by a giant death wolf, _this_ is top of the line stuff. This is better than you ever dreamed. This is worth him staying in your apartment and stealing your food and watching Dave's hard earned Netflix subscription. This is _divine._ You feel uninhibited, you feel free.

Is this like heroin? One shot and you're hooked and the world's going to be grayer after this? You sure do hope not.

That's the thought that pulls you out. Like getting doused with cold water. The horrible possibility that you could develop an addiction to someone. That would cripple you, go against everything you stood for. You can have an addiction to work, to your own demons, but as soon as it involves another person? No. Nothing is worth being utterly dependent on someone. You can only rely on yourself.

Your thoughts clear up a little, due to an inherent disgust for yourself. You're still buzzing with those good sex vibes, but apparently they’re mostly mental. Your wits come back to you, whether you want them or not. You take a look at what’s happening in the dream.

You’ve got a body in this starry night-scape, as per usual. You’re floating, face up, in the black infinity of space. Your erection is a work of fucking art. There’s a Jake standing between your legs, bending over you. He has your ribcage pulled open like a heirloom cabinet, but no blood or organs tumble out of you. Instead, there is a ball of white light, which Jake is poking like he’s playing a game of Operation. Feels massaging, comforting, warm. The feeling of sex, stimulation, pounds through you with each movement of his hands.

You can tell he's an avatar, a vessel. This Jake’s eyes are all shadow, and he moves stilted and jagged. Jake's apparently got most of his consciousness siphoned off upstairs, no doubt to fully enjoy your empty, lifeless body. This Jake keeps poking and prodding at the thing pouring out of you like stuffing.

It feels good, but you're mildly concerned. You think that's your soul. He's just digging through your memories and personality, huh? You also see that there's something carved on the intangible ball of white, written in **BIG BLACK BOLD LETTERS**. You believe Jake marked you with it.

It’s too stylized for you to read it confidently, and also lacks the necessary vowel signs for your beginning language skills. You can at least tell it starts with “al,” but every fucking noun starts with “al.” You think hard at the Jake right in front of you, asking, Hey. What’s this say. but there's no response. 

You try another question, still directed towards the fake-Jake.

What are you doing?

His response is from an actual voice, although one warped by dream and imagination. It's like you're listening to him through a tin can. He does not look at you when he replies, the mouth on his model barely moves.

"Participating in the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of exploration, while simultaneously cowering and safe from the big scary world out there," he says. "You're caught in my honeypot, bumblebee."

It's too smooth for his dorky accent and usual way of speaking; it reminds you of the poetry he wrote on you. Like an off-brand, mystical version of Jake. You do a mental double-take once you process the word “honeypot;” that’s a software term. Weird. Is he stealing your vocabulary? Is this just all in your imagination?

I don't think "caught" is the right term. I'm willfully laying here like a dumbass.

"Same thing, isn't it," he says, and his voice is rich as red wine. "Whatever you spin it as doesn't matter to me. I like stuffing and sewing and disemboweling, I like that the trophies I take are soft and unable to hurt me. I like playing with my dolls."

You hope to every iteration of God that he's talking in poetic metaphor. You're 90% sure that was poetic metaphor. 80% sure. 

For the sake of your sanity, you assume he wants to make you into a ‘be my sexy sex slave’ type of doll as opposed to… a literal one. Either way, it’s not very hot. Yeah, you're very down for playing pretend at being a puppet as long as it's a temporary thing. But being someone's subby sub domestic house husband 24/7 is the Ultimate Nightmare Scenario. You want the freedom to be a Cheeto-dust covered computer gremlin who spends his free time coding the pseudo-sentience of the horsesona you made for Hatsune Miku— Hatsuma Miclop. Can't do that if you're sex-obsessed and being weird human furniture for your live-in dom genie.

It's dawning on you that you _shouldn't_ trust him to give you control when you need it. You still trust him to hop off your dick if you tell him to stop —although you expect him to be a little shit and argue with you before doing so— but you _don't_ trust him to stop digging through your head when you don't want it. That pisses you off. You thought-holler at the Jake upstairs.

Hey, English.  
Yeeeeess?  
Stop digging around in my memories.  
Sorry! Little busy up here! What are you on about?  
Shut the fuck up, I know you can multitask.  
Stop "exploring" my head.  
Sorry strider cant hear you your dick is just TOO BOMB.  
Cant focus ooooh ooooohhh ahhhhh too busy getting my jollies off.  
Maybe YOU should get into it A LITTLE MORE!  
Uh, sure.  
Okie dokie smokey have fun!  
So, just to clarify, you're leaving me unobserved, with no supervision, in a sexual dreamscape mind meld plane of existence, so I can enjoy myself.  
Well yes. Whats with the semi condescending tone?  
No reason.  
Have fun with my dick.  
Yes sir.

Unobserved. Left to your own devices. You wonder if you can dip into his head for a while, get some leverage, research what type of jinni he is. Fair’s fair, right? He fucks with your head, you fuck with his. Eye for a fuckin’ eye.

It’s easy to drift away. You think it, you do it, you wander. It’s just like before, when you were witnessing Jake fuck that buxom blue eyed girl. Imagery unknown comes to you, like it was always at the ready, a daydream waiting to happen.

You conjure up a small island in a small sea, and you can picture every rock, every crevice, every pot and pan and brick that’s been laid there. You picture it like you belong there, like you’ve walked amongst its meager cliffs every day for decades. You stand on the ocean and watch time pass before you. 

You reach out to a memory of Jake’s:

[](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35124752) |  [](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35125055) |  [](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35124038)  
---|---|---


	11. 3800174790

You're witnessing this through Jake's eyes. In your arms, you carry your dead, completely nude "wife" through a wasteland that Jake does not glance at. The feeling of fondness, sadness, and sympathy wells up in his chest as he stares at her. From the get go, you know you're fucked. You're pretty sure he's not intending on burying her.

She's been dead for at least a day. Probably more. Her eyes are milky white, burst blood vessels dappling her irises. Her corpse is stiff and bloated. Some kind of yellow fluid is leaking from her nose, mouth, ears. There's flies buzzing around her. Her skin is pale blue, a suspiciously even shade of pale blue, like he aged her just right, like some sort of fine cheese. When he sets her down on the desert sand, he has to use an inhuman strength to force her body to lie flat against the ground. There's a noise like wood splintering as he breaks her muscle and bone to do so. He sits on top of her, straddles her hips.

At first you think he's going to fuck the corpse. You don't know if your mental projection of yourself can dry heave while trapped in the POV of a probable necrophile, but it's really making an attempt. He does not fuck the corpse. Instead he does something that is… arguably worse.

Jake forces her hand up to his face. He tenderly places her delicate pointer finger in his mouth. He chomps down, and bites through it as though it were a carrot. Skin and bones swirl and crunch between his teeth. He swallows it down, licking his lips of the brown blood oozing from the nub of her hand, and places his mouth over her middle finger to repeat the process. Finger #2 is devoured the same way.

He breaks her thin wrist, snapping it like a twig, causing it to go limp. He then slides the side of her palm against his lips, lovingly, and takes a bite out of it like a corn cob. Makes a similar sound effect too. He chows down on gobs of decomposing muscle and white fat, and with your taste buds warped by the memory of a jinn, it might as well be marbled Kobe beef. You do not doubt that he’s going to devour the rest of her like this.

You do not consider yourself squeamish. You think slasher films are stupid, exploitation films silly, and you don't flinch when faced with real life injury or an emergency situation. But this is beyond rank. The mouthfeel of rotten human skin observed from the perspective of someone enjoying the taste is the worst thing you have _ever_ experienced. There is not enough money, men, or rewards in the whole wide world to make you watch this.

You _really_ want to throw up. Anything to get this taste out of your mouth.

[Next Chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35123792)


	12. 5324642132

It wakes you up, the feeling of wanting to vomit. It's like you're sick with the flu, stirred by illness and your insides lurching. You open your eyes in a panic.

The morning sun in your bedroom helps push the feeling down. There's this 'it was just a dream' mentality that overtakes you, eats the taste in your mouth. But it wasn't just a dream.

You are still naked, in bed, no covers on. You hear Jake shift next to you, and his smiling face pops into view. You cannot help but imagine brown blood dribbling down his chin. He leans over you, arm propped up against the pillow.

"Morning!" he says, cheerfully, completely unaware of what you just witnessed.

"You ate your wife," you say, deadpan. Jake's eyebrows raise.

"Were you digging around in my noggin?" he says, scratching his head. "That's not gentlemanly at all."

"You _ate_ your _wife,"_ you say, less deadpan.

"Well, yes?" he says, a little offended.

"You _ATE_ your _WIFE!"_ you say, completely losing it.

Jake looks like he's morally objected to your accusations. "What else am I supposed to do with them? Let it all go to waste?"

You push him away, jerk up to a sitting position. Your heart is pounding with the fear of a nightmare you just woke up from, everything hurts, your stomach is churning. But more than that, you're angry. You're pissed at yourself. How could you have been so complacent with this monster? How could you have let yourself feel comfortable, have sex with him, treating this as a joke? What's he planning on doing to _you?_

"Did you kill her!?" you say, grabbing at your hair. He's still lounging against the bed, staring curiously up at you. "Tell me you didn't murder her on top of _that!"_

"Um…" he says, meekly. "Which wife…?"

This only increases your panic. "Black hair, blue eyes, lived in a tent-"

"Oh! Oh yes, I adored her, my beautiful dancer. I loved to watch her! I was her biggest fan," he says. He sits up, to look you in the eye. He seems to finally sense that something is wrong. "But yes, I… I maybe might have pushed her a little too far with her passions. Tuckered her out. I feel very guilty about it still. I didn't mean to."

'Tuckered her out.' He probably killed her with seizures and mental orgasms. You don't want to die like that. _You don't want to die like that._

You have no idea what to do. You want him gone. You don't know how to get him gone. You don't know how to exorcise him. You've tried forcing him out of your apartment earlier in the week, even though it was half-assed, but the fucker just mind-teleported you into fantasy land and you're unable to function like that. You expect he'll do that on repeat. And you don't know how much more your body can take.

You get out of bed, and retreat to your bathroom. Your muscles are tight, tense, it's hard to walk straight. You have a horrendous headache. You need to be left alone and you need a hot shower. Jake follows you, concerned and hesitant.

"Are you upset with me?" he asks. You don't answer. You open the door of the shower, step in, slam it shut, start the water. He yells over the barrier of the glass door and roar of the downpour in your ears. "I know it's taboo but can you see it from my point of view? I loved her and that's the best way of appreciating those who were dear to me! And unlike you, I find fermented meat appetizing. There's no need to be a dick to me just because I don't share your likes and dislikes!"

This is _beyond_ likes and dislikes, this is base fuckin’ ethics. This is not so much taboo as it is morally repugnant. You grab the shampoo, work it into your hair to distract yourself, and respond with a question. "Are you planning on doing that to me?" 

"I'm not going to marry you or anything!" he says, pleading with you. "I've been trying to stop getting so attached to people since I inevitably ruin everything and it makes my heart ache if I get too close!"

That is the worst possible way he could have answered the question. So, yeah, you think he's going to kill you. Pseudo-accidentally, during sex, and he's not even going to feel bad about it. Embarrassing way to go. But hey, no one will have to know. Rose and Dave and Roxy and your dad and your step mother won't even have a corpse to mourn over.

Jake knocks on the glass door. "Can I come in? Let's talk it over?"

You state it firmly. "Get out of my bathroom, Jake."

He actually leaves. You hear the bathroom door shut, and you peek through the cloudy glass to see him gone. You feel a weight lift off your shoulders. You’ve got to have some time alone.

You wash up, style your hair, put on some clothes and shades, grab your laptop, and leave for work on a Saturday morning. Jake watches you go, hesitant and looking like you hurt his feelings, drinking your coffee at your breakfast bar. You lock him in your apartment.

You absorb yourself in your job for a couple hours, sitting hunched over at one of the shared-space office tables, squinting and scrolling through lines of your coworker’s code. But your hands get twitchy and your head still aches and you cannot distract yourself from your impending doom for long. You find yourself skimming Wikipedia and misspelled forum posts to find some clue, some hint, as to what to do next.

Fear is an emotion you’re not all that used to.

[Next chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35358381)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've gotten to the end of the CYOA section (so don't fucking click the AO3 next chapter button, click on the blue Next chapter :))))) )! 
> 
> [Anyway, leave a comment, let me know if you had fun, and feel free to try some of the other paths.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35123186)


	13. 9583712083

i TOLD YOU NOT to CLICK THE neXT CHAPTER BUTTON YOU FUCKING MORON  
[GO BACK TO WHERE YOU WERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35123792)


	14. 25807599867

It’s pitch black. You think you’re on the island you imagined— you smell the sea air, feel the rush of a strong wind, the warmth of summer. Your bare feet press against short, scratchy grass. The stars, normal stars, hang above you in the open sky. And clear as day, as if a spotlight was shining down in front of you, you see two Jakes fucking each other on the ground.

This isn't the detached, just-want-a-warm-hole kind of fucking that you would imagine being appropriate for screwing your clone, this is like watching two lovers go at it after three years apart. They are in full on missionary, wrapped in a tight embrace, kissing like the only way they'll get oxygen is from hormonal CPR. Top Jake slams into bottom Jake with loud slapping noises, both of them whispering moans into the other's mouth like they're sharing secrets. 

What the hell are you watching here.

It's kind of hot, you guess, but three things throw you off. 1. Most importantly: you cannot ever imagine fucking your own clone. In the age old parable, "So You're Locked In a Room With Your Clone: Fight or Fuck?" you would absolutely pummel yourself to death, and cannot _ever_ imagine participating in selfcest. The state of mind Jake has to be in for this is incomprehensible to you. Takes you out of the spectacle a bit.

2\. The Jakes have a strange disparity in appearance. Physically, they're built the same, but the one topping is beaten up. He's covered in scratches, his hair is messier, there's callouses on his hands, dirt under his nails. He's a little skinnier too, malnourished maybe. The one bottoming is perfect and clean, like the Jake you've been canoodling with in the real life. You get the impression that the one topping is… human. Strange.

3\. As you hone in and observe (dream-hand drifting to your dream-dick because hey, why not), you realize they're a little… too close. As you stare at the line of their torsos, pressed firmly together, you realize there isn't really a line at all. They're merging, like Jake shaped amoebas.

The Jake on top rips himself from the bottom. Literally. There's a noise like separating two pieces of Saran wrap from one another as Jake detaches himself. He stands, turns to you, and you see the hole in him.

Well, actually, you see his dick first, because you've got your priorities straight. Big and slick with oils and fluid, hard as diamonds and a stream of precome dripping out. Holy shit you want that in your dream ass two hours ago.

Also there's a giant hole in him. From the middle of his chest to his pelvis, just above his dick, a black void is cut into him. Inside is the beautiful starscape he’s been taking you to in the past— swirling constellations and galaxies, suspended beneath his skin.

He gently pulls you close. The starry hole in his stomach feels like cool gel when you press against him, like water beads. He pushes his lips to yours, sweet like a parting kiss, and then turns you around. The other Jake reaches up to you, wraps his hands around your wrists, and coaxes you to lay on top of him. Which you do. You ain't passin' up being the bleached deli turkey in a wheat bread sandwich, no sir.

Instead of shadows, his eyes flow with that hot, white-gold fire. From his mouth spills the same, flames flickering through parted lips. Like an idiot, you stick your tongue in it.

He still tastes of smokey tea, sweetened just right. You drink it up with messy kisses, the comforting heat curling across your chin and cheeks. He adjusts his hips beneath you, wraps his legs around your back, and you slide into him. It's so good; the tightness too realistic for a dream. You think your subconscious is pulling the experience of real-life Jake riding you and transferring it to the fantasy.

You don't mind when the other Jake's hands are on you, spreading you apart. He enters you with no preamble or foreplay, but you're relaxed into next Tuesday and nothing is painful in dreamland. You can tell that the dick inside you isn't concrete, unlike _your_ dick inside Jake-- your ass is so weirdly tingly it feels like you shoved a couple sparkling wintergreen breathmints up there. 

You don't know what to do past this point. You've never done this sort of thing before, and you can't really snake your hips against Jake as per usual due to another one pinning you in. You tear yourself away from the delicious mouth-to-mouth.

"I- sorry, I have no clue on proper threesome physics," you mutter, your in-dream voice sounding like it's echoing from down a tunnel. The Jake beneath you quirks his head, confused. You get the impression he doesn't understand what you just said. Does this mean you're in some old, ancient, pre-English Jake memory?

You remember how to say sorry in MSA. More importantly, you remember how to say it while out of your wits and getting fucked in six dimensions. You cross your fingers that it's understandable in whatever obscure dialect he probably speaks. "Uh. ‘Ana assif."

"،معليه" he says, his eyebrow raising, flames lapping over it. You have no clue what that means.

The Jake beneath you pulls on your hips, tugging you flush to him. The Jake behind you starts wailing on you, hands gripping your thighs, slamming into you with loud thrusts. Everything below your navel is a static wave of sleepy pleasure, individual sensations indiscernible from the overall feeling of 'real fuckin’ good.'

You don't have it together enough to keep making out. You collapse against the Jake beneath you, the cooling void of his stomach spreading through you. You feel the thrusts slow, but the lightning sensation of eternally-building orgasm doesn't dim. Jake curls himself over you, his chest pressing against your lower back. The two starry pools against you give you a symmetric feeling of absorption, like you're being consumed by the greater universe.

You feel like you’ve achieved Ultimate Chill. You feel at peace. You feel full and whole and well-rested. You feel like Jake is making love to your soul, like he's got fingers in the deepest parts of you. He's stopped moving, both of him, and his bodies are impossibly flush to yours.

You haven't closed your dream-eyes, but you’ve been lost in the world and haven’t been paying attention to your surroundings. When you rotate your head to the side, against Jake's lovingly warm cheek, you see your shoulder and upper arm phased into his. Like you're a ghost about to pass through him. 

Something, some remaining logical process in the back of your head, tells you that you should be concerned about this. And it picks at you and pokes you until you listen to it. There is some distant light, some flicker of comprehension in the back of your head. You realize, that if you don't remove yourself from this situation _right now,_ you will be lost here. You will be trapped in your head, stuck in featureless pleasure. Just find something tangible, something to pull yourself from the dream. Something easy. 

Well. You kind of want to come.

[Next Chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35124179)


	15. 123123324

this IS A CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE YOU FUCking CLAM  
Yorye NOT SUPPOSTED TO click PREVIOUS CHAPTER, clICK **NEXT CHAPTER**  
GO BACK TO WHERE YOU WERE


	16. 84738920

Your eyes snap open and you have a divine revelation in the form of an orgasm. It's absurd how incredible it is. Light flows through you and blackness blinds your eyes and you loose yourself in storm and lightning for a few seconds that stretch on into eternity.

Did people ever worship jinn? You recall something like that in a Wikipedia article you scanned. You'd be praying every day at Jake's shrine if it meant you could experience this all the time.

You hear him laugh, joyfully, and feel warmth spatter over your chest from his own orgasm. You'd be happy to fall asleep like that, but the last remaining bastion of rationality in your head tells you that you need to wake up, at least for a little. Despite the come-down trying to pull you back into sleep, you force yourself to observe what's going on around you.

Your room is still dark, although there's a hint of blue pre-dawn light from your shaded window. How many hours was he at it? You reach out to Jake, stroke his thigh. He's still got you in his ass, straddling you, panting and beaming down at you like he's won a grand prize. You are the prize, it is you.

He bends down, to press a burning hot kiss to your forehead. "You can fall back into sleep. I'll clean you right up, don't worry." 

"Nnngh," is all you can say. He pulls himself off of you, and you shiver with over-sensitivity. You hear Jake get up, walk to your bathroom. In his absence, you realize what a mess you are— it's worse than usual. Your dick feels disgusting, like the grotesque sensation of having the tips of your fingers super wrinkled from being in a bath too long. There is a shit fuck ton of spit streaming down the sides of your mouth, into your hair and sideburns. The sheets beneath you are drenched with your own sweat, like stain-your-mattress drenched. Your eyes are dry as a desert, you think they might have been open for a while. Your muscles and neck ache, they feel like they've all been pulled from difficult athletic maneuvers. Your head feels like it’s about to burst with a throbbing pain from behind your eyes.

You suspect you were having severe seizures. You're so damn spent that this doesn't even phase you. Fucking _worth it,_ frankly. You wipe away as much as you can, scoot over to a less wet part of the bed, lay your head down, and pass out immediately.

[Next Chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35124347)


	17. 834927759

Jake joins you in your dreams. You're not sure how long you got normal, non-REM sleep-- probably however long it took him to clean you up.

Like before, you're in the starry planescape with him, although you're learning how to parse it. He's hard to observe here, it's like he's made of shadows, existing in multiple states of being. He starts rubbing his hands over you, half-massage, half-foreplay.

Mentally, you're very sexed out. You'll take it and probably enjoy it, but you're not super enthusiastic about it. It's like eating dessert when you're already full from a good meal.

So you split yourself and drift away, like you've done in this dreamscape in the past. You're getting better at this, more practiced, now used to maintaining a couple versions of yourself. You feel like it's an inbred talent of yours, to puppet splinters of yourself in an infinite cycle of micromanage. 

It helps that dream-Jake wants to fondle dream-Dirk and you don't have to talk to him much or make him aware of the fact you're AWOL. Jake doesn't seem to notice that 90% of your consciousness fades into the foggy realm of imagination and thought.

You want to know more about his past. You want to psychoanalyze the bejeezus out of him. You think, from that brief glimpse you had, that he wasn't always a jinn. From your brief scan through the Wikipedia article, you didn't think that was how it worked. You thought it was a "once a jinn always a jinn" sort of thing. But whatever. There's so much cultural nuance you figure you're missing something.

You bet you could go back to somewhere in that island, if you thought hard enough about it. But you decide to go down a fresh, new path of backstory instead. You've got another clue to go on-- that girl he was fucking in your first encounter. You want to know about someone else who's gotten entangled with Jake.

When you think of her, you see her body in your minds eye, laid out before you. Her skin and head and hair are nearly transparent against the stars, but all the nerves on her are lit up and super-visible like one of those health class diagrams. Golden, glowing light begins at her forehead, then spreads out like an eternal tree. It goes all the way down to her feet. Labeled at certain points are letters of the alphabet. If you stare at them hard enough, you can discern meaning from them.

At the top of her head, at the beginning of her nervous system, you see ا (Marriage). You figure that's the first memory Jake has of her. Was she his wife or something? Sleeping with a married man is a first for you.

You will yourself to enter into it. You're in Jake's POV, squatting next to this woman's bedside in the dark of night. You can't see a whole lot-- they're not in an artificially lit city or anything, so all you have to go by is moonlight filtered through some thick curtain walls. Her bed is raised, but just by half a foot or so. There’s someone sleeping beside her, a dark lump of human who you safely assume is her husband.

Jake strokes her hair back behind her ear, utterly enchanted by her face. She's awake, blinking up at him with glistening eyes barely visible in the light, giving Jake this "frightened but intrigued" type of stare. Jake really likes that.

On Jake's end, it's love at first sight.

So this egregious asshole, with zero impulse control, crawls beneath her covers and lays on top of her. He is inordinately lucky that it's clear the feeling is mutual-- she kisses back with enthusiasm, is elated when he touches her. She makes no sound as he fucks her, you're going to guess that Jake's artificially stifling her moans as he slams into her next to her sleeping husband. Get cucked, beta male.

You're so mentally checked out that you're able to straight up ignore the taste of her and the PIV sensation. You find this scene disgusting, and not just because you don't swing that way. In theory, a sexy man coming into your boudoir in the night and wordlessly fulfilling all your filthy desires and giving you a million orgasms is a pretty dope concept. It's like that "Zeus fucks you in the form of a golden shower" myth, which you always thought sounded fun. But realistically, there's a low low chance that's going to work out pleasantly for everyone involved. Also, her husband is _right next to her,_ Jesus fucking Christ, Jake. That ain't right.

When they've finished, and Jake is propping himself up over her, he does a slight of hand trick. Three small gold coins materialize between his fingers. He presses them, one at a time, gently to her mouth. He leaves them resting against her lower lip, slick with spit. He vanishes in a flash of shadow, and you are pulled from the memory.

That was the shittiest wedding you've ever attended.

Jake mentions he's "Following" you, with a capital F, and implies what he does to a human is different depending on if he's specifically summoned or if he personally chooses to Follow somebody. You figure this woman's blessed with the latter.

You wonder what happened to her. You wonder, vaguely, if Jake killed her. His sense of empathy is clearly fucked up, if it exists at all, so it wouldn’t surprise you if he murdered her. You trace her lines down to the feet, where you see three letters. You see ظ (Exile), just before the last two letters, at her ankle. At the very last light, the tip of her toe, you see غ (Death). Past the final branch, you see ء (Mourning) floating outside of her form.

| 

Hey there sleepyhead.  
Did you have fun?  
More or less. I think it can all be summed up as "mind blowing."  
I see you're getting handsy. You really want more?  
Do you mind? You can just lay back and enjoy the sensation i dont really need any reciprocation.  
Go ahead. Feels good. Just hands or mouth though, even mentally I don't think I can do penetration.  
Okie dokie.  
I think you must have fucked me for a couple hours.  
Is your ass like, prolapsed, dude? That can't have been good.  
No way im magic! *Double pistols and a wink.*  
Didn't think that would cover an elastic fantasy butthole.  
It does. Its on the registry of nifty djinn powers.  
Does this feel good by the way?  
Does what?  
This? Dirk are you paying attention to me?  
Absolutely. 100% attentive.  
So, yes, more of that please.  
Dirk are you REALLY paying attention???  
It hurts a guys feelings if youre not participating.  
...  
Yeah, dude.  
I’m just tired.  
Completely fucked up mentally.  
Thanks a lot.  
Youre welcome. ;)  
This dream-blowjob is great.  
Oh thanks!  
  
---|---  
[ظ (Exile)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35125259) |  [غ (Death)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35124884) |  [ء (Mourning)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35123516)  
---|---|---


	18. 84793991

  
It doesn’t feel all that much like a dream, anymore. Some things are foggy at the edges, but besides for that, it’s like you’re actually there. Wherever “there” is.

You stand at the rocky cliffs of an island. The sun is about to set, orange light casting a sentimental glow along the calm sea. The island isn’t far off from the mainland, probably only a mile or so out. There’s a town on shore, surrounded by large rocky cliffs and scrubby lookin’ flora. You’re behind Jake, who is sitting crosslegged with his back to you, and cooking something in a cauldron with an open flame set out to his left.

You're certain you're in a memory of the distant past. Jake is, apparently, an ancient being.

He's wearing a black tunic, with detailed white embroidery along the edges of the collar, across his loose sleeves, and at the hem above his knees. He's clean-shaven, but no glasses. His hair is in roughly the same shape, which is pretty funny. Does it just grow like that?

The pot next to him is big, but even bigger bones are simmering in it, long femurs and humeruses shifting in the bubbling water. There's remnants of tough muscle clinging to some of them. Jake's holding a yellowed bone, from somebody's arm. He's scraping it free of meat with a knife, peering at it really close, getting it clean to the minutiae. Next to him is a blanket with sparkly clean skeletal parts set out, ready to bleach in the sun.

Is it cannibalism if Jake's a different species? That's a philosophical conundrum for the books. You consider it a minor blessing that you can't smell whatever’s cookin’. Just the sea air, the freshness of waning sun and sands. 

This dream-Jake calls out to you first.

Well hello there dream of mine.  
You can see me?  
Ive met you once before right?  
Not in this time period.  
Oh sorry i must have mistaken you for someone else.  
Okay. What the hell are you doing.  
Sometimes the dead wash up on the cliffs.  
I clean the bones.  
Why? You gonna eat 'em?  
No i dont eat people! Thats disgusting.  
I just think its neat. Its like a fun trophy collection!  
Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess.  
Would you like to have sex with me?  
Im getting VERY TIRED of fucking myself.  
Great segue. Skeleton talk to sex talk really gets me hot.  
Bone is one letter away from raging hardon.  
Although I guess I am standing in front of you while completely nude and sporting a giant erection. Kind of colors things.  
Are you? Ive got some vision problems. I thought you were wearing a bleached sheet.  
I get it, I've got the skin swatch of Snow White, no need to rub it in.  
*Rub rub.*  


|  He scrapes off the last bit of cooked pink human meat before turning around, flashing you a charming smile, and waving at you. He sets the bone down on the blanket, next to the others, and stands up. He brushes some white dust off his tunic, then gives you an over-the-shoulder "follow me" kind of gesture. You do so. 

You follow him down a steep slope of short, scratchy grass, and end up on something of a beach. It's more of a rocky flat with calm waters ebbing and flowing over the gray mass, but the pebbles are pleasantly warm and smooth under your feet. Jake pulls off his tunic in one smooth tug, then tosses it further up on dry land. His dick is at half-mast already. It’s average, he’s not bumping it up in size like he usually does in the starscape.

He gives you another "come hither" gesture, and wades into the sea. You wait for him to scrub off his arms and hands in the water before following. Dream or no, you refuse to let him touch you with his freaky death covered hands.

You wade out to him. The ocean is warm on your legs, thighs. You have always loved the sea.  
  
---|---  
  
The water is at waist level once you get to him. You rest your palms on his chest, which is still as testosteronely hairy as it is in present day. He's not as soft, his skin and muscle is hardened with the toil of having to live on a nowhere island in some probably-three digit AD era. You trace your finger down a thick scar along his collarbone, one he definitely doesn't have in the 21st century.

Green eyes scan your face, curiously, before they fall shut. You kiss him. Nice and soft. Slip some tongue in. He reciprocates, sweet and slow. He tastes like something human instead of smoke, which throws you off. You like how he smells, how he tastes, like skin and sweat, as one should. He wraps his arms tight around your waist and tips himself backwards, into the water.

When you fall into the ocean, you feel more than his arms around you. You feel him inside your goddamn soul.

| 

Can you drown?  
No. I'm just a dream.  
Neither can i. Although obviously for different reasons!  
I think i cant die because im losing my humanity. Mortality and morals and whatnot.  
That's not possible. You can't force immortality out of loneliness and being a weirdo who collects bones.  
Do you know how many weird aesthetic Instagram witch teens would be immortal if that's how it worked? All of them, Jake. All of them.  
I dont really know what that means but i trust you weird white guy.  
Weird White Guy is my brand. Engrave it on my tombstone.  
Will do.  
Hey, wait, are you human?  
I think so.  
I dont really know anymore.  


|  You open your eyes beneath the sea, and there is no sting of salt, no pain in your irises. There is just the calm blue ocean, crystal clear, swaying and sparkling around you. Breathing comes natural. Jake lies beneath you, the spiderweb-like pattern of the underwater sun dancing across his pretty brown skin. 

He flips over, beneath you, so his chest pressed to the smooth, round rocks. He pushes his ass up, so your dick slaps against it.

You want foreplay or lube or anything? This will hurt.  
No it wont.  
Like i mentioned i fuck myself A LOT.  
Fingers are different than a dick.  
No like with MY PENIS you goober. My STAFF attached to my FAMILY JEWELS. My HARD KNOB.  
What? Actually, nevermind, I should know better than to question things at this point.  
In we go.  
Open up the tunnel. Choo choo, in comes the train.  
Still not really sure what youre on about.  
But it sounded like a laugher. You get a guffaw.

You try to get a hand between you and his plush rump, to finger him at least a little before railing into him like a douchey bro-top. He reaches behind himself to tug your wrist away. He wiggles his ass more insistently against you, and his skin feels so good against your fake dream erection, so you decide to give him what he wants.   
  
---|---  
  
He’s tight, lovely. You push in until your pelvis hits him, the water providing just enough friction to make it. Jake arches his back against you. 

The warm rocks beneath, the sun above. Your hair floats in dreamy waves in front of your face. You feel lazy, like you're jerking off pre-nap in a beach chair with no real intent of coming. You're mentally in the mood to fall asleep with your hand on your dick in some tropical paradise. 

You can't talk underwater. You open your mouth and bubbles come out. You have to ask him how he's doing through that mental thing.  


|  You alright?  
Very good.  
Please fuck me.  
---|---  
  
You shut your eyes. You feel like you're falling into double sleep. You want to dissolve into the ocean, be consumed by the rays of sun shining down, be eaten by pleasure. You run your hands over Jake's back, trace the curve of his spine, grab his hips and rock into him.

You think the feeling of Jake fucking you as you sleep in your bed is carrying over to here. The building stimulation doesn’t match with the speed you’re actively doggy styling memory!Jake at. It doesn’t bother you as much as it should. As soon as the sexual activity picks up, you start to lose yourself again.

Sex wells inside you as more than just a physical experience, but as a plane of higher existence. You feel your form begin to dissipate into the pleasant, ebbing ocean of thoughts and feelings and Jake's warmth. You feel what he's thinking too, what some past iteration of himself was feeling at the time. It's hard to parse. It's warped and distant, shifting like the sunshine in the waves, like you shouldn't be able to grasp onto it.

I hate people, I hate them all. I get so nervous, I want to die.  
I wish people would just say what they feel. Why's it so hard for them?  
Why's everyone always so mean to me?  
I want to see the world but I'm so scared of all of them. They're so scared of me, too.  
I can dream things and they're real. No one else can do that.  
And I found out I can do poetry? Who woulda thunk, right?  
I've started making a little money off of that. They all think poets are prophets.  
But it's the other me doing the writing. I don't know how to write.  
The other me is just me, but he's got a tribe, you know? A family. "People" around him.  
I don't know if I made him up, or what. Pretending I can be happy somewhere. Pretending I can have friends without fucking them up.  
I think I'd like to become my other self. If I dream of it, I can do it.  
Then I can adventure all I want. I can disappear back to the other people who love me if I get scared.  
Sounds like a ball of time, right?

Some small thought forces you to cling to your reality, some last holdout of Dirk-rationale. You get the feeling that, if you give in to this utter sexual Oneness bullshit, that you're never going to wake up. You don’t know why you’re thinking so irrationally, and you try to push down your gut feelings, but this one is incessant. You cannot ignore the worry.

You've got to latch on to something real. Pull yourself out of the pleasure. Thankfully, something _very_ real is happening with your dick right now. 

[Next Chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35124179)


	19. 498273974

  
You watch the woman dance in twilight, in the wasteland.

Her bare feet brush against a ground that's half sand, half rock and dirt. Wide, sweeping steps and powerful hip thrusts. She is nearly naked, nothing but jewelry and a veil covering her. She is in ecstasy, eyes rolled back, wet as hell between her legs, her body arching and curving for more of Jake's touch. 

He's having sex with her as she dances. It's freaky to watch. He's not physically present, but he's hounding her like a shadow. Invisible hands that you cannot see, but know exist, phase in and out of her skin, fondling her soul and fingering her brain. She’s probably experiencing the same as what he does to you. The hands do some of the more mundane stuff too-- dip into her mouth, play with her tits, ghost her clit. Something like his face will appear to kiss her and lick the sweat and wet from her body on occasion. He whispers words to her that you can't understand, a music only she can find the beat in.

At first glance, it's kind of romantic. Dancing as your lover wraps himself around your soul, as he runs nonexistent hands up your body depending on the way you move and sway to his voice. You suddenly understand how those old hat Puritanical Americans could see folk dancing as a sexual activity if it felt like this. You'd pick up fuckin' tap dancing if it meant you could get a ghostly handjob while doing it.

But then you look a little closer.

The skin is shucking off the soles of her feet, leaving painful rawness beneath. Spots of red dot the ground where she dances. Her arches are bruised black. There's dark blisters on her toes. Cracked nails. Her ankles are filthy with dirt and the dried, splashed fluids of pus and crusty blood.

Her lips are bleeding and shriveled from dehydration as Jake kisses them. Her body shivers not from orgasm, but from tiredness and seizure. Her legs and arms lock up regularly, she forces them to continue their path. Her eyes are red and dry from lack of sleep. There's foam at the edges of her mouth. She's been dancing for hours upon hours, possibly days. You realize, with a rattling horror, that Jake's driven her to fatal exhaustion.

What a way to go. Trapped in pleasure, unable to escape. You watch this poor girl dance herself to death.

You guess if you had to pick a way to die, being so consumed by otherworldly pleasure you cannot feel the pains of life would definitely be your second choice. Still, she looks really young. Around your age. Overwhelming pity and horror wells in your chest as you watch her collapse to the ground with a loud thud, has a seizure in the dust, watch as Jake stirs her and coaxes her back to her feet, watch as she falls again, and again, but forces herself to rise up and dance all the same.

When she cannot get up any more, despite Jake's soothing touches and whispering, he manifests physically. He lays his larger body on top of hers, spreads her legs, and enters her.

She makes a dry gasping noise, one that'd be a moan of pleasure if she were in full health. Her long black hair is splayed against the ground. Her mouth is gaping. Her eyes are rolled back so you only see the whites. You're pretty sure she's inches from death, and you're even more sure that Jake isn't going to stop once she crosses that line.

He looks content. You feel sick.

[Next Chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35124956)


	20. 345345892

The sickness is what wakes you. The sun is shining, you’re completely naked and laying on sheets starched with your own sweat, and you have the worst headache of your entire life. 

Jake, popping into your view, doesn’t help much. “Morning!”

For the first time since you have met him, your fight or flight response kicks in at the sight of his beaming face. It's well delayed, you realize you should have been fearful of him since day fucking one. You shoulder through it.

“You killed your wife,” you state. You sit up, rubbing your temples. You hope that these sexy seizures haven’t been giving you permanent brain damage. “I can’t believe you forced your wife to dance to death. That’s just… bizarre.”

"Oh!" he says, like he didn’t know what you were referring to until just this moment. He sits up with you, and sighs fondly. "Yeah, yes, her. My dancer. She was such a gem. Left her children behind for me and everything."

You’re so appalled he’s reacting so nonchalantly that your state of mind loops around into complete calmness. "You murdered her, dude."

"No! No, you've got it all wrong! I loved her so much. No one adored her as much as I did," he pleads, and you swear his eyes are getting wet. "I loved to watch her dance and gander at her happy face! And while her eventual fate was my fault, I think 'murder' comes on a bit too strong..." 

Your face actually crumples into a sneer, entirely of its own accord. Jake keeps trying to explain away his lack of morals. "I know I ruin people, it's what I do, and I've learned to stop getting attached so it doesn't hurt as much… Um, I really did love her though! I kept her skull as a memento. Want to see?"

“No,” you say quickly. Your left eye twitches. And despite everything screaming at you to _not_ ask the question, to just move on with your life as-is, you ask it nonetheless. You just love fucking yourself over. "Where's the rest of her?"

"Eaten," he says, like it’s obvious.

You shut down.

Without a word, you get out of bed. You ignore Jake’s “Hey, where are you going?” to go brush the shit out of your teeth. You shower, style your hair, put on some shades and clothes, grab your laptop and head to work on a Saturday. Jake is a little miffed that you aren’t responding to his questions as you leave your apartment, but you figure Netflix will sate him.

You spend a couple hours in the office, absorbing yourself in work, before you manage to reboot. You realize that you’ve got to get rid of Jake English, no matter the cost. You can’t let him kill you. You cannot allow yourself to get lost in pleasure and die like that. What a horrible way to go, when you’ve got the rest of your life ahead of you.

You hate to admit it, but you’re real fucking scared.

[Next chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35358381)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've gotten to the end of the CYOA section (so don't fucking click the AO3 next chapter button, click on the blue Next chapter :))))) )! 
> 
> [Anyway, leave a comment, let me know if you had fun, and feel free to try some of the other paths.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35123186)


	21. 9834500389

i TOLD YOU NOT to CLICK THE neXT CHAPTER BUTTON YOU FUCKING MORON  
[GO BACK TO WHERE YOU WERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35124956)


	22. 34534524

It doesn't feel like a dream here.

You sit on a wool blanket, on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The milky way is splayed beautifully across the sky. Cool night air lingers on your bare skin. The smell of the sea flows through you.

You are enchanted by the moon and its reflection. The gentle ebb and flow of silver waves painted upon an ocean of black. You hear the rush of smooth waters and wind against the cliffs, the sound of the ocean. You have always loved the ocean.

Across the water, you see a small blob lit with some dots of firelight and lanterns-- there's a town on the shore. The lights of humanity leave a tiny reflection in the dark waters like lightning bugs. From the short radius of outcropping surrounding you, you figure you're on a small island near the mainland.

|  | 

You're sitting next to Jake. Or, _a_ Jake, he's different than usual. A Jake dredged up from some ancient memory. He's sitting with his knees hiked up to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins, a patterned blanket draped over his shoulders. As far as you can tell, he's naked too.

The moonlight is bright enough to see him. In this dream, he’s a bit thinner, less styled and put together. No glasses, either. He’s got a beard.

It surprisingly works for him. It’s not craggy or long, just neatly trimmed and dark on his jawline and around his mouth. All the hipster beer brewing guys in your neighborhood would be envious of this facial manscape.

He turns his head towards you, and he reacts in an unexpected way: he looks at you like you just broke his heart. His lips part, he exhales shakily, his eyes crumple in sadness.  
  
---|---|---  
  
“انا فايت بالحيط. ليش مين انت؟” Jake says, but you don’t understand it. 

“Love your dirty talk, babe,” you say, because you’re an idiot.

He reaches out, to stroke your arm. His fingers are calloused on your bicep. He glances down at your situationally inappropriate massive erection, and bites his lip. Swallows. He brushes the blanket off his shoulders, lets it fall to the ground, and adjusts to sit crosslegged. Yeah, naked as you. Not as hard, though. That's something you can fix.

You’re still buzzing with good vibes, Jake just stripped, and you’ve got an erection that’s probably considered a dangerous weapon under statutory definition, so you figure you’ll make this sexual. You don’t want to like, fuckin’, force yourself on one of Jake’s memories, so you’re careful when you brush your fingers along his back to embrace him around the shoulders. He inches towards you. His eyes flicker to your lips.

You try to touch his dick, but he pushes your hand away. “،طوّل بالك” he murmurs.

This is going to get real obnoxious real fast if you can’t understand him. You get the vibe he’s okay with getting cuddly, but you could be misreading him. 

You pull some Pocahontas bullshit and listen with your heart. You call out to him, instead of the Jake riding you in real life.

He walks his fingers across your shoulders, ends his trip with an embrace around your back. He reaches between your legs, wraps his free hand around your cock. Which, okay, sure. You’re down for some mutual masturbation. The last time you did this was in college, with the one guy you’ve ever fallen in love with. Didn’t last. But you remember this sort of thing being kind of romantic. You wrap your arm around his waist, to hug him close.

You press your fingers to his chin and tilt his head the way you want it. His beard’s really soft, not scratchy like some of the dudes you’ve kissed, the dudes who don’t know how to use conditioner. Jake shuts his eyes, parts his lips, waits for your kiss. You give it to him. 

It feels like a first kiss in a new relationship. He's hesitant, and you're hesitant because _he's_ hesitant, and your fake-dream-heart is throbbing for some reason, and his eyelashes are gorgeous in the moonlight, and you feel content and happy and warm when your lips finally meet. You kiss him gently a few times, before opening and deepening it. 

He tastes human, not smokey at all. He kisses so desperately. You can feel how lonely he is in the way that he refuses to break for air. He just met you, can't even speak your language, but he wants contact so bad. Your heart fills with pity for this guy you barely know. You do your best to give him a good handjob. You play with him until he's hard, which doesn't take long, then give your wrist a quick stretch and go at it.

On your end, Jake jerking you off feels way better than it has any right to be. It's tight, warm, slick, like you're fucking someone instead of getting a handy. You guess the sensation of the real-life Jake nailing your comatose body is transferring down to here. You hope he's having fun up there. You're definitely having fun down here.

You're tempted to let yourself get lost in sex and sensation again-- you rarely get the opportunity to stop thinking, so it's a juicy possibility. But you're too curious as to what's up with bearded Jake over here. You might not get another chance to talk to him.

Also, you like it here. You like being aware of the island, the cliffs. You feel the midnight breeze and smell the fresh salt and hear the sound of the ocean and it's… it's nice. It's like something you'd do with a boyfriend. It's like you're teenagers sneaking off to Makeout Hill to engage in some heavy petting. It's the first time that Jake has felt like more than something you want sex from. Which is ironic, since you're actively having sex with two versions of him, but whatever.

| 

Hey there. I like your beard.  
I dont it gets random foodstuffs stuck in it.  
Ive been trying to get my hands on a proper razor for what seems like eons.  
What time period are we in. Was shaving a thing back then? What do you even use, saltwater?  
???  
Nevermind. It must have been a thing, considering all the baby faced Roman busts out there.  
Ignore me.  
Ignored.  
Back to the beard. I like it. It gives you this masculine castaway vibe.  
Are you deserted here?  
No haha im not stuck although i might as well be.  
Ive got a seaworthy vessel. But the citizens on that picture perfect coastline all think im batty so i never leave.  
But im all by myself. Gets a bit lonely.  
I was thinking about trying to swim to the shore soon.  
Kind of far. Don’t think you’d make it.  
I know.  
Ah.  
Who are you? Youre an interesting dream of mine.  
Usually i only fantasize about myself when i want these sorts of things.  
That’s a concerning amount of narcissism, but I’ll bite.  
I’m a vision of your future. Scary, huh?  
You’re going to be decimating some pallid basement dweller twink’s ass on repeat with your mythological mind warping powers.  
My what?  
Your...  
Hey, are you human?  
What else would i be?  
Okay, that’s an eleventh hour twist.  
According to Wikipedia, that's not how it's supposed to work. You’re not a jinn?  
No. Are you pals with my companion?  
Companion? I thought you were alone.  
I am.  
Hold on, I think somethings getting lost in the mind-translation here. Could you say companion out loud?  
Slowly, please. I don’t speak a lot of Arabic and definitely not whatever weird-ass ancient island dialect you probably have.  
  
---|---  
  
“،قريني” he says.

“Garhynii,” you repeat, poorly. You should try to remember the sounds. You think you’ll be able to spell it in the Arabic alphabet if you do some dialect research. Then, Google shall be your guide.

Jake giggles at your bad accent. “.رهيب”

Arousal usually makes conversation difficult, or at least removes your filter, but thankfully it's all in your head. You can enjoy the feel of Jake's hand/ass on your dick while managing to maintain coherency. This Jake seems to want to talk as well.

Hey whats your name?  
Dirk Strider.  
What year is it?  
What? I dont understand the question.  
Alright. That's baffling, but expected if you're some sort of uneducated island hobo. Is Rome around.  
???  
Its a country. Heard they're real dicks.  
I havent the faintest idea as people rarely engage me in conversation!  
What's this island called?  
I named it hellmurder island.  
Of course you did.  
What's that town over there called?  
Its not a town its more of a trading stop. Ships come by all the time with prisoners and such.  
If i go over there i always feel like theyre going to sell me on some creepy crawly market.  
But i shouldnt fret. None of them want to talk to the weirdo on the rocky outcropping anyway...  
Why not? You're handsome and have a way with words.  
Hehe.

| 

You focus on the kiss, the handjob, the general vibe of HEY!!!  
Oh my god.  
WHAT ARE YOU DREAMING ABOUT??  
Jake, I am trying to have a conversation with your sexy bearded AU self. Please shut up.  
DIRK WAKE UP!  
DIRK WHAT ARE YOU DREAMING ABOUT????????  
...  
DIRK  
I SAID WAKE UP!!!!!! WHAT ARE YOU DREAMING ABOUT???  
[Next Chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35125187)  
  
---|---


	23. 92374234

You wake up smarmy. "You."

You’re still on your back, and your room is still dark, although some pale blue light is making it through your curtains, and Jake’s normal looking and sitting on your cock with this angry expression on his face and oh fuck who fucking cares your dick feels like it's about to erupt.

"Jake, fuck, I'm so close, please-" you beg, clawing at his hips. You are edged to the fucking wall, you are _milliseconds_ from orgasm. This is not just coming out of a wet dream, this is like you crash landed in the big finish moneyshot section of a seventy minute porn. Your dick is probably purple with built up tension. You have never been more turned on in your life.

“Why were you looking in my head!?” he whines. Everything pulses, your dick is _throbbing._ “It’s hard for me to keep track of everything going on! I can’t believe you’d take advantage of me like that!”

“Jake!” you beg. You buck your hips up, but he moves with you, and you get no friction to relieve yourself. “Jake, please…”

Jake rolls his eyes, makes this disgusted noise, and then angrily starts riding you. It’s all you need. Orgasm comes with such a roar that you black out, and it’s fuckin’ _awesome._ This is straight up the greatest orgasm you have ever had in your entire life, it’s like the release of hours worth of sexual tension, stretching on into infinity.

You feel Jake’s own release spatter over your chest. Once you come down from the orgasm, you realize that you’re in a pretty poor state. The sheets beneath you are drenched with your own sweat and who-knows-what-else. Your jaw aches from clenching. All your muscles are sore and worn out, like you just ran for miles. You think you’ve been having seizures, like actual honest-to-god seizures. Something horrible is throbbing behind your eyes, forcing your vision to fade, hammering on your head like you’re getting punched.

You barely hear Jake’s voice over the knockout bell. “I’ll clean you u-”

You pass out in post-orgasm, post-seizure stupor.

[Next Chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35124347)


	24. 6483622

thIS IS A CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE YOU FUGCKING MORON  
[go BACK AND CLICK ON THE rIGHT FUCKGIN LINK!!!!!!!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35125187)


	25. 834858932

You appear to be sitting on a rug, kneeling with the woman, holding her. You're inside a hot room, and there's a small crowd standing around you. You are in Jake's POV.

He hounds her like a shadow, phasing through her and wrapping his arms both around and inside her in an impossible way. You don't think the people around you can see him. You're pretty sure they're some country bumpkin nomads from middle-of-nowhere desert-land, but you can't discern their faces or clothing well enough to confirm. Jake's eyes are only for the woman he stalks. He lingers near her ear, whispering sweet nothings in some form of Arabic. She cannot hear the words of her family over Jake’s voice.

Somebody's chanting something-- or singing or reading, it's hard to tell in a language you barely know. They finish their phrase, and there's a heavy silence. Like they're waiting for the woman to react.

Jake spreads her mouth apart with his invisible hands. It seems like more of a gentle suggestion, a guideline for her to follow while possessed. Her lips part, and hundreds of coins tumble from her mouth in a golden waterfall. They clatter to her lap and the soft rug with a muffled thunder. There's some screaming, probably some curse words. An older man comes forward, speaking in soothing, soft tones, his arms opening in a gesture of comfort and non-judgment.

Jake tells her to run, so she does. With his help, she skims past the crowd, ducks under the doorway, so fast it’s almost teleportation. Her path is shadow and white fire beneath her feet. Every step leaves crackling flames in a puddle of black as she flees.

She runs to the wasteland, further and further away from civilization, Jake following her, clinging to her shoulders, his ethereal chest pressed nearly inside her back. She is elated, grinning, loose clothes billowing joyously in the wind. 

They get to some safe place, the middle of nowhere, desolation surrounding the pair. She talks at him, excitedly, twirling around on her toes like she’s so happy to be in the middle of a desert with no available resources and a 100% chance of death from the elements.

Her conversation doesn’t go on long. Jake rewards her. Her hands spasm awkwardly in front of her chest, and her words begin to slur together, and her eyes roll white and she falls forward in seizure. Her body slams against the soft sands in a puff of gold. You watch her convulse, lose control of everything.

Jake doesn’t seem to realize that this is… probably not great for her health. He’s causing it, wants her to feel good, rubs her back with nonexistent hands, coaxes her through it. She gets up once he’s finished. Sand pours from her mouth, from her nostrils. She undresses completely, removes her soiled clothing, lets them lay in the desert. She's left with only her long veil and her jewelry. He takes her hands in his, and forces her to walk onward.

To say you're disgusted is an understatement. Is this a forewarning, the Ghost of Christmas Future pointing at this woman like she's your grave? To be lost in pleasure like this, to the point where you willingly leave the life you've desperately carved out for yourself, is a nightmare.  


[Next Chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/35125370)


	26. 10019372

Your fast heartbeat is what wakes you. You open your eyes to a quiet Saturday morning. Sunlight shimmers over your discarded blankets, over your naked self.

Jake leans over you, grinning, completely unaware of what you just witnessed. “Morning!”

“Dude,” you say, hesitantly. “Did you drag some poor lady out into the desert so you could oversex her to death?”

“Uh,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Were you peeking in my memories? That’s very rude!”

You sit up. Your head is throbbing, you’ve got the headache of the century. You ignore it to glare at him. “You did, didn’t you? That girl with all the coins in her mouth…”

A lightbulb goes off over Jake’s head, like he figured out what you’re talking about. "Oh, yes, her! I loved her so. She was such a gem. Had two of my children! Wonder what happened to them?" he says, cheerfully, clearly _not_ wondering what happened to them. 

You're almost afraid to ask. "How’d she die."

He sighs, woefully. "Her passions got the better of her. It was my fault. I always ruin the relationships I'm in... It's so much easier to stay detached, even if I get a bit lonely. But then I can have fun without worrying so much about what I'm doing."

'Passions got the better of her.' You think of being lost in the thralls of passion with him, last night. What if you were seizing yourself to death without being aware of it. What a way to go. Killing yourself without knowing it, surpassing your limits, unable to recognize how far you've gone because you're so detached.

For the first time since you opened your door to him, your heart races with fear. Frankly, it's long overdue. Your idiot self should have had this fight-or-flight response a week ago.

"Oh, I kept her skull! One for the scrapbooks," he says, twisting around as though he's looking for something he dropped behind him on the bed. "I was really fond of her. Wanted something to remember her by. Want to see?"

Your voice comes out panicked. "Don't show me th-"

From behind this thigh, he grabs a bleached, standard-looking skull. A couple teeth are missing, and the lower jaw is bound to the upper one with old leather straps, but besides for those items it's in good condition. Skeleton-in-a-science-class worthy. Not as disgusting as you thought it might be.

He holds it out, proudly, like he's showing off a blue ribbon. "It's nice to have a memento. I'm happy I refrained from eating at least one part of her!"

That is certainly a thing he just said. Everything, every process in your body, goes blank. You bluescreen.

"I need to go style my hair," you blurt out, deadpan but rushed, because you need to leave and it's the first embedded response that comes to you.

"Okay!" he chirps, happily, and you're already halfway to the bathroom.

You shower in a daze, style your hair, throw your clothes and shades on, grab your work laptop, and drive to work without saying anything. Jake doesn't even try to talk to you when you leave, just turns on Netflix and starts watching.

It's 11AM on a Saturday and you don't even care. You walk into your empty hip open-space uber-agile startup office, grab a beer from the fridge, sit down in a beanbag chair, and start coding. You only stop for the most minor of breaks, or to grunt a hello at another brogrammer who shows up for a couple hours. It takes you until 6PM to admit it to yourself.

You're scared shitless.


	27. STRIDER FAMILY BEATDOWN

Welcome to the beginning of the #he's-eating-her!-and-then-he's-gonna-eat-me!-oh-my-gooooooood! channel.

So I took the liberty of reading multiple scholarly articles on jinn, 13% of a twelve volume encyclopedia, and the relevant Surahs of two annotated translations of the Qur’an. Lacking any Muslim friends, I also investigated more modern takes through forum posts and the overflowing and assuredly reliable knowledge base of Reddit.  
what the fuck its only been like two days  
anyway pales in comparison to the strenuous research i did  
i played shantae: half-genie hero  
Dope.  
also i asked karkat what he thinks  
dudes a staunch atheist and not really in the know but his dads from the middle east  
so thats gotta give him cred points right  
Where exactly is Karkat's dad from?  
uae  
That might be too removed from Jake's stomping ground.  
But hell, why not. You go first.  
well first off karkat thought i was fucking with him  
deadass couldnt convince him my bro was getting sexed by a jinn  
anyway he pretty much told me that jinn live in bathrooms  
What?  
yeah he said they live in bathrooms and move shit around  
not literal shit  
just like kleenex boxes and toilet paper and stuff  
and peep on ladies if they feel rude and raunchy i guess  
theyre like that bathroom hand in zelda  
except invisible  
Does English have a penchant for lurking in your washroom? I'm picturing him squatting on the seat like a toilet gargoyle.  
That'd be truly incredible, but no. Not at all. Nothing about Karkat's description matches.  
welp okay thats all i got  
sorry bro youre fucked  
Literally.  
Mhmm.  
fucking yuck  
have i mentioned how much i hate you horny sons of bitches lately  
i hate you horny sons of bitches  
Well, your story wasn’t entirely useless, Dave.  
It provided an excellent segue into my own research.  
yeah im real vital that way  
Karkat’s explanation illustrates perfectly the impossibly vast world of the jinn.  
Think of how different Jake is from an invisible potty ghost.  
There are millennia and multiple religions worth of lore about these creatures.  
and here we are  
three irreligious white people  
ranking it all from best to worst  
I’m not writing a Buzzfeed article, I’m helping Dirk with his supernatural addiction to bottoming; a worthy cause.  
Fuck yeah it is.  
wait what you mean youre not a top  
So first of all, and most importantly, I based my research in the medieval and Pre-Islamic periods.  
As most of the modern reports of jinn are concerned with things like what Karkat addressed, and also jinn committing sexual acts in the midst of sleep.  
You don't say.  
But back in the days of yore, it was much different. There were various categories of jinn defined, particularly in the 1001 Nights and other old tales generally considered fictional. But the more I read into it the more I believe categorizing Jake is essentially meaningless.  
Why.  
Because categorizing a wonderfully complex being does a disservice to the colorful tradition of Arab storytelling.  
Poets didn’t necessarily have to pay heed to an arbitrary classification scheme of jinn. They simply told what they imagined.  
so people just made shit up and talked about it at bars  
"oh yeah jimmy accidentally summoned a buttfucking jinn and keeps getting buttfucked by it"  
Sort of, but you're missing the part where those "making up" the stories truly believed in them.  
If you dream it, it can be real. Hundreds of thinkers took trips across the mountains of the mind to travel to the land of the jinn and write about their experiences.  
Some were driven insane, given madness by a jinn calling them to the imaginal and enthralling them. With our modern lens, we can say “insanity” was caused by a mental issue. But to them, jinn following humans, enthralling them, giving them seizures or illnesses or creative prowess was as real as the lines etched into their palms.  
Jinn both depended on and provided the abstract. Any type of jinn could be created by someone imaginative enough.  
So I'm fucked. That’s why he said he was hard to get rid of.  
Because there’s no standardized way to get rid of him.  
Not necessarily. You just have to figure out the narrative family he's from and be inspired by what others have done with their jinn before you.  
Honor tradition, and craft your own fable. Be the hero.  
I'm not much for imagination.  
Any tales of humans becoming jinn? Those would be the ones I’d want to research.  
No, none whatsoever. There is no narrative precedence for species-to-species transformation. That should be outside of the realm of possibility.  
I know asking someone who spent a whopping two days researching this subject is ridiculous, but: are you sure?  
I think Jake used to be human.  
The closest thing I can imagine is that in many tales, and the Qur’an, there is a “spiritual double” concept.  
A jinn may exist that is an exact copy of you, living in a parallel dimension that we humans cannot process.  
Comparatively, in the Qur’an, the “spiritual double” is more in reference to a “devil on your shoulder.” An entity that encourages you to sin.  
Say more about the first. Might be relevant.  
Of course.  
uggghh this is boring im tabbing into newgrounds  
Who plays fucking Newgrounds games in 2018.  
me  
A doppelgänger, tied inherently with your existence, lives in the invisible realm of the jinn. Their lives mirror yours: their movements, their experiences, their society, their religions.  
And in some stories, if you are morally righteous, they will be as well, and not cross between worlds.  
There are slight differences between you and your double, however. Some of the possibilities may include:  
-A different name.  
-A taste for rotten flesh.  
-Inability to resist passions.  
-Part of a tribe of likeminded jinn.  
-Ability to enthrall humans.  
-Fast travel.  
-A very long life.  
-Responsible for all your creativity. Your “muse.”  
For instance, according to Brill’s Encyclopaedia of Islam New Edition, Vol 1, page 690...  
why are you citing your sources this is a fucking discord chat i couldnt give less of a shit  
Pre-Islamic Arab poet Maymun ibn Kays Al-A’Shah brought forth his, quote, “demonic alter ego” to compose poetry in order to defeat a mob.  
holy shit just kidding i give a thousand shits suddenly  
did he rap battle his way outta a circle of twenty guys  
called forth the muse of sick beats and spat mad rhymes  
his rapsona  
the slim shady to his eminem  
He was also rendered blind and apparently his poetry relied on sound effects and gestures, so yes, 6th century rap is 100% a possibility.  
This means we all have jinn doppelgängers?  
I suppose it does.  
Although things get a bit murky when you factor in the belief and faith thing. Do you really have a personal jinni if you don’t believe in those particular Pre-Islamic folktales?  
Is it simply pulled from your head? If you believe it to be true, does that make it so?  
Imagination can accomplish a lot.  
I’m not willing to dream up a complete copy of myself. I’d kill him. And then wait two days and eat him, apparently.  
wait youd fight your clone  
why wouldnt fuck your clone  
Would you?  
refraining from answering that thanks  
Reprieve granted.  
Anyway.  
I’m going to ask something.  
And it’s going to sound ineffably dumb.  
So.  
Do you think it’d be possible for your doppelgänger to possess yourself?  
Enthrall yourself?  
Like Slim Shady possessing Eminem.  
youre right thats pretty fucking dumb  
That is kind of silly.  
The combined entity would literally just be *you.* Perhaps with some bonus powers.  
why the fuck would anyone do that  
Because they are very lonely and afraid.  
I suppose it’d be within the realm of possibility. Some poetic fables can be interpreted as self-possession.  
But you might be breaking new narrative ground if you were to attempt to remove the “muse” of another person.  
This is such a mess. As per usual, I screwed myself over.  
I should have just summoned a sex demon in French. Gotten a boring Catholic demon.  
Or a shitty Protestant demon. That'd be amusingly dull.  
Speaking of. How's your Lawful Evil doggo friend doing, Rose?  
I had a playdate with her yesterday, and quizzed her on the jinn.  
She said something along the lines of, "sorry, im pretty much trapped in my own little bubble :( if you want i can try to duke it out with your brothers friend! but i probably wouldnt be able to see him, different bells for different hells! and were ringing in the wrong pitch and tone"  
Then we had a wild ride through the forest, where I was completely in the nude and holding on by clinging to her fur and straddling her back with my voluptuous, milky thighs.  
ROSE NO  
My skin glistening with post-coital sweat in the pale moonlight.  
ROSE  
The thrill of the hunt sparking a stirring in my loins.  
NO  
God, I'd kill for that experience.  
I think we're at the point where you two might have to be unironically worried about me.  
not unironically worried  
Say it ain't so. Anything but that.  
Sad but true.  
I found out he killed his human wife. And then ate her.  
hahahahahahahahahahaha  
sorry dude but thats fucking stupid  
do you live in a snuff film  
He doesn't seem to realize he committed multiple serious moral blunders. So I, and it kills me to admit this, but it would *literally* kill me if I didn’t:  
I'm scared.  
?  
Oh.  
uh  
hey unrelated but you want to have a sleepover tonight  
me and you crashin on my futon after playing ssbm with glitched gamecube controllers final destination no items  
eating nothing but those styrofoam cheeto puff knockoffs that are like fifty cents at costco  
i have an extra toothbrush from the dentist so you dont even have to go back to your apartment  
Yeah. Yeah, I’ll come over after I leave work.  
rose can come too  
I demand item usage in SSB:M. Set to Very High.  
hard sell dude  
but okay  
i accept your terms and conditions  
Thanks for helping me with my idiotic decisions.  
helping is a strong term  
I’m only helping because I need better hobbies.  
Watch out, the sentimentality is melting my cold, dead heart.  
love you  
Go team.


	28. QUE'EST-CE QUE C'EST

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you following along at home, I don't consider this next big chunk a "part". sowwy. I guess this is like, part 2.5 out of 3? There's still another giant sex scene to go.
> 
> Also I had like three people ask about it so I added a tag for the filthist kink of all: Eventual Happy Ending. "but oxfordRoulette," you may say, after finishing this next chunk. "how the fuck." or even "but oxfordRoulette i don't want a happy ending!" no no, do not fret, my sweets. just trust me, my little chicks. mother hen shall satisfy all. mother hen shall provide the goods. cluck cluck, bitches, open up the beak and let me deposit mashed up dirkjake porn worms into your gaping maw (clarification: i don't know how chickens work).

Your sleepover turns into a Rose/Dirk research party while Dave plays Star Fox Adventures on the Gamecube and provides running commentary. You spend the time looking into Islamic exorcisms and certain verses of the Qur'an to spout to get Jake out of your apartment, but all it comes to is a bunch of dead ends. In order for a religious exorcism to work, you would have to 1. Believe in it, like, for realsies. 2. Not call the jinn to you in the first place like an idiot. 3. And according to some sources, Jake would have to be Muslim. Which you can confirm he's not, because apparently Muslim jinn _cannot_ be summoned, which is an interesting fact.

Pre-Islamic exorcism info —probably the one most relevant to your situation— is completely nonexistent. In the folktales, the hero always befriends, seduces, outwits, or succumbs to the jinn, and you feel you’re destined for the latter. Dave vaguely suggests finding outside help with an imam, but you shoot him down. You doubt that anybody's dealt with something this… physical. Jake is _real._ Jake is really, really real. You don't want anybody but yourself getting hurt.

That includes your family. You forbid them from stepping into your apartment until you take care of the problem. Dave thinks you'll be able to take care of it on your own, Rose has absolutely no faith in you, and they give you stranger and stranger advice until you fall asleep on Dave's floor at 2AM.

You sleep in ‘till 11-ish, spend an hour in Dave’s bathroom as he whines at you through the door for taking too long, and go out for Sunday brunch as a fam. They give you some final tips as you eat whole wheat pancakes and drink bottomless mimosas.

Rose tells you to fight him, to wreck his shit, to give _him_ the seizures. From all accounts, you should be able to manipulate the magic-bullshit-imagination-plane he pulls you into and use it against him. He provides the battlefield, you learn to use it. But you're not great at pulling fantastical dreams out of your head on the fly. Jake's so much better at it.

Dave tells you to ask Jake to leave. Which is something you haven’t actually tried. You and Rose blink dumbly at each other for like, a minute, appalled that the both of you were mutually too stupidly obtuse to think of the most obvious first step. Yeah, maybe you _should_ try asking him first.

And when that doesn’t work... Well, you’ve got a katana. You might avoid the dream realm entirely and “wreck his shit” in the real world.

Dave offers another suggestion after you pick up the check for them, as you’re getting up to leave. "Remember, bro. If you're in trouble, just do what the ancients did. Summon forth your rapsona and spout sick rhymes at him until he gives up."

You have no idea how to possibly go about summoning your ‘companion’— called a “qareen.” You don’t want to do this anyway. You cannot imagine an uninhibited/more creative doppelgänger of yourself being pleasant to commune with. You’re going to table that heinous idea forever.

You drive back to your apartment, alone, promising to check in with Rose and Dave as soon as you get an opportunity. Part of you hopes English got bored and left without your body and mind to entertain him last night, but your dreams are crushed when you walk through your door and get greeted by a loud “Hello!” Jake is sitting on your couch, wearing another comic book shirt/short shorts combo. It's a black Punisher T-shirt, this time. He’s ripping out pages of some shitty dime store romance novel, crumpling them up, and swallowing them systematically. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he gnaws and gulps down pieces of paper.

He finishes chewing his bite. He asks you, nonchalantly, “Where were you?”

“Hanging out with the fam,” you reply, kicking off your shoes. Jake doesn’t seem to mind you were absent, acknowledging your response with a simple shrug. He tears off another part of the book. "What the hell are you doing."

"Reading makes my noggin throb," he says, cheerfully, then pauses to grind down the paper in his mouth. "This is an easier way to digest the narrative."

“Nice pun. 5/5 hats,” you say. Jake waggles his eyebrows at you, mischievously, before eating another page. 

You sit down next to him. Not too close, not too far, just a respectful distance away. He senses that you want to have a serious talk, so he sets the book aside on the arm of the couch. He wipes the traces of ink from his mouth, then blinks at you, curiously. You take a deep breath, to gather the words you rehearsed on the car ride here.

“Look, Jake. I want you gone,” you say. “I’m sure you’re a great guy and all, somewhere in there. Deep, deep in there. But you’re freaking me the fuck out. I don’t want you to ‘follow’ me any more. Will you leave? And never come back, please and thanks.”

He raises an eyebrow. His answer is immediate. "I don't want to leave. I really like your stuff. You have _every_ subscription movie service, bro. And your fancy dancy AI computer home is neat. And that latte machine is smashing even if it does make shit coffee by default. And you live next to a metric boatload of fried chicken restaurants and also live like six blocks away from a cemetery, which is nice. And not to say I don’t love your thoughtbox too! It's so big and mystical inside. You're a grand adventure."

"Your rampant materialism and objectification doesn't help things, dude."

He ignores that. “That’s not all I like, of course. I do very much like romping around in the bedroom with you. While I admittedly enjoy the horizontal tango the same way I enjoy movies-”

“Without discrepancy or standards?”

“-I like doing the forbidden polka with you especially! You make me laugh, Strider.”

Now _that’s_ an actual complement. You didn’t know he had it in him. Still, you don’t give him any purchase: you give him a cold, hard glare from behind your shades.

Jake looks disappointed at your lack of response. He thinks on it, for a while. He finally says, sadly, "Are you bored with me?"

"… Huh?" you say, alarmed. You have no idea how he came to that conclusion.

"Are you bored with me?" he repeats, leaning towards you. "I know boredom's a total fucktruckin’ pisshole of a mind killer. I don't want to be rude and leech off you if you're not having any fun. Do you want me to spice things up a bit?"

"Our relationship is already 'spicy' enough for my white ass," you say, air-quoting. That racial joke is a filthy lie, you deepthroat Sriracha bottles on the regular.

"I can tell you're lying. I wish you'd say what you mean," says Jake, frowning. He's right, but you're pretty sure he misinterpreted what part you were lying about. You read that, sometimes, jinn twist your words and wishes around a la Monkey's Paw. A Monkey's Paw you could handle. But a 'nice' guy who willfully ignores intent due to perceived density? Not so much.

His frown turns upside down when he thinks of an idea. "Don't worry, Dirk! I'll be the charming handsome hero and take care of your needs just like you want. Let's have some fun!"

Oh my god. you groan, resigned to your fate, as your apartment begins to shift and warp around you like the cool parts of Doctor Strange.


	29. FA-FA-FA-FA-FA-FA-FA-FA-FA-FAR BETTER

He pulls you to your feet, excitedly, and drags you to your entryway. The wood of your floor shifts beneath you like someone’s shuffling a bunch of textured images together. It glitches and clips and overlaps, like Todd Howard programmed it.

| 

You don’t feel like you’ve been teleported to the dream: everything feels physical and normal. You know better, of course. You stare at your door, which appears simultaneously five feet away and a mile away. Your wall looks like some fucked up MC Escher monstrosity of impossible angles. A Magic Eye image pulled directly from hell. A house of cards made from pictures of your house.

You did muay thai for two years right? asks Jake, spewing a fact he definitely dug in your memories to get.

Yeah, in high school, when I thought it was edgy. you say, frowning.

Well come on then! he chirps, then puts his fists up in a fighting stance, bounces back and forth on the balls of his feet. Lets tussle! Have a bit of a spar! Nothing is spicier than fisticuffs!

You sigh, begrudgingly, then lift your arms into a boxer’s pose. You haven’t fought in a long, long time— you used to have a lot of fun doing this sort of thing. You decide to play along.

Before Jake has a chance to gather his wits, you lash out with a practice hit. You breeze past his defenses, and punch him lightly with a palm strike to the forehead. His neck lolls back and he makes a silly “aaaugh” noise. The corner of your mouth tweaks up by twenty five degrees.

He giggles, as you recoil. No no not like that! Im not some prissy angelfood cake. Go hard strider! Wallop me! Its not real.

You're going to ignore that. You'd break your hand on his dense skull if you were punching at full power. Besides, when actually standing before him in the flesh-and-blood, you think you're going to have a hard time bringing yourself to hurt him. He's not _quite_ a friend, but he still triggers your weak, bleeding heart. Which is… stupid. He's honest-to-god chaotic evil. Hurting him shouldn't bother you. It's a basically a given that he's going to hurt you, shouldn't you make payback a bitch?

Your emotions throw off your plans to “wreck his shit.” You didn’t expect this. You’ve got to get rid of your sympathies _fast_ in order to defeat him.  
  
---|---  
| 

You consider your options. You take a moment to glance back at the couch, in your shifting living room. The furniture is a rock in the tumultuous sea of your apartment. Oddly, it’s in monochrome, compared to the color of the wild environment surrounding it. There lies your body, sprawled over the cushions, breathing in shuddering wheezes that you cannot hear, some foam trickling from the side of your mouth. You spasm, on each exhale. Fuck, you hope you don't piss yourself in a brain dead stupor. That'd just be embarrassing. Another Jake is there as well, not watching your round of fisticuffs, continuing to eat pages out of the romance novel.

You are not paying attention to the active Jake. You deserve the suckerpunch that’s coming. 

He goes _hard._ The only reason he doesn’t break your jaw is due to the angle; your head is turned away from him. Still, it fucking bites. Bone hits bone and spit flies from your mouth and you’re stumbling backwards, pain coursing through your cheek. You clutch your hand to your face, reeling from the bruised heat throbbing through you. Bent over at the waist, you hold up your finger to Jake in a ‘wait’ motion.

What the hell? That fucking hurt.  
It shouldnt have! Its not real!

You’ve got to get over yourself. Jake’s fucking _insane,_ you’ve got to depersonalize him enough so you can hit back.

No, you *can* hurt me here.  
This isn't fake.  
Well not with THAT attitude it isnt!

You think you can detatch yourself enough to get _one_ fatal hit in. And as much as you like to talk up ‘your sweet guns,’ you know your fists wont give you the one hit KO you need. You need your katana. You’re pretty sure it’s currently in the fridge (the cold keeps it sharp).

You turn tail and run.  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In the next chapter, tap the arrows to go to the next blurb.** Hopefully this will work for everyone (it's like, web 1.0 technology...).
> 
> The arrows and the directions you need to go are all color coded. (Red arrow links to red box, etc) If you get super lost, scroll to the top and start over.


	30. RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN RUN

Your apartment elongates and contracts like an extending telescope, and it takes you too many steps to dash to the couch. You want to try phasing into your real body; like maybe stepping into it will force you back to the real world. It doesn’t work. You leap, your ghosty leg passes right through your own spasming torso, and your feet squish into the cushion.

You keep the momentum going; Jake’s right on your tail. You launch yourself over the back of the couch, the non-active Jake shifting his head slightly so he doesn’t get kicked.

>  
  
---  
  
>  
  
---  
  
Hey wait where are you going?  
Oh i get it you like being HUNTED. You could have just said so!  
I can definitely play into that little fantasy of yours!  
You can run but you cant hide from me little pet. ;)  
You sound like an actual monster right now, dude.  
Here I am, the slutty white frat bro in a horror movie.  
On the run from a... Demonic bone collecting psychopathic serial killer cannibal necrophile.  
With a question mark on the necrophilia, I think that was only implied.  
And honestly, do I even care? Is fucking a corpse worse than eating a corpse? That's a family-friendly dinner table discussion if I've ever heard one.  
Either way, I'm gonna be dead.

<  
  
---  
  
>  
  
---  
  
Well if the eaty thing freaks you out for some reason then i am happy to inform you im not that interested in blue MEN.  
Only blue women.  
Does that mean im a gender biased charlatan? Oh dear i should probably make an effort to change my habits with the next poor bloke.  
Which is... uh... going to be you by all accounts.  
I have no mouth and I must scream. Jesus fucking Shit.  
Also, make up your mind, is this real or not?  
If you catch me and kill me in this Doctor Strange bullshit plane, am I going to die?  
Only if you have a piss poor attitude about it!  
Nonetheless everyone i follow dies EVENTUALLY because of what i am. I ruin everything and mark death on my lovers and i dont know how to stop it.  
Its probably my fascination with mortality or some other high minded poetic hootenanny. It means nothing to me anymore but means so much to all you humans.  
Anyway relax!!! Enjoy the ride!!! Death is a great adventure im unable to explore myself.  
And stop trying to JUMP THE GUN!  
Its pissing me off that you are making ZERO effort to play this game with me!  
Let loose!!!! Learn to have fun!!!! Lets make it wild and adventurous!!!!  
Wheres your imagination strider????  
Hard to dream up rainbows and ponies when I'm being hunted by Freddy fuckin’ Krueger here.

∨  
  
---  
  
Jake lunges for you, grabs your arm, and you trip on some shitty apartment jpeg artifact and topple to the ground. You bring Jake down with you, and he tries to get a grip on your legs as you scramble back to your feet. What you lack in strength you make up for in agility, and you manage to hit the ground running before he has a chance to recover.

<  
  
---  
  
Look, I think you're only this ridiculously evil because you're both willfully dense *and* ignorant of everything that manages to slip through your brain barrier.  
So let me make it abundantly clear.  
I am scared.  
Which is something I would be unable to admit if you didn't have an open connection with my mind, by the by.  
But this is the most important part: I do *not* want you Most Dangerous Game-ing me.  
Stop it. Stop it right now.  
Ive never seen that movie! Do you like it?  
It's not known amongst Millennials for being a movie, dude.  
But yeah, I think it'd really resonate with you. You should read the short story.  
Thanks for the hot tip!  
Anyway that wasnt clear at all...  
Right. I meant, don't Battle Royale me.  
I havent seen that movie either?  
I forgot you only like shit tier films.  
I like EVERY MOVIE you dolt!

∨  
  
---  
  
>  
  
---  
  
How about:  
Don't Death Race me.  
Were not in cars.  
Don't Nightmare On Elm Street me?  
That movies a laugh!  
No it's not, you're thinking of the sequels.  
Don't... uh... Deliverance me?  
Hells fucking bells what kind of asshole do you think i am!!!!!!  
That is very unfair my guy! If you are suggesting i was intending to take advantage of you in a horrible way then let me assure you i have no such uncouth thoughts in my head!  
Even evil has standards, I guess.  
Although if youd like i wouldnt mind a demonstration of dominance once i catch you. *Wink wink nudge nudge*  
Oh, yeah, that's cool.  
As long as there's no porn dialog about "squealing like a pig."  
Can do!  
Wait, no, what am I saying?  
My boner co-opted my thoughts, there. I shouldn't encourage your bad habits.  
I take it back.  
Wait so you WANT me to compare you to swine!?  
No. I meant-  
Nevermind. Doesn't matter. I'm here.  
Youre... where?

∨  
  
---  
  
∨  
  
---  
  
You yank open the fridge. You wrench out your katana from where it’s propped against the side, and whip around. You pull off the sheath, toss it aside, and kick the door shut.

Jake is staring at you, eyes narrowed, mouth gaping, arms up in an offended shrug. You think he’s dumbfounded by the fact you keep your sword in the fridge. You don’t see what’s so weird about it: the cold gives the grip a pleasant hand-feel.

You inhale, determined. You’ve got to do this. You call upon the combined holy strength of pop culture references and prayers to boost your will.

St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes, please give me the power to _crush this bitch._

Was that a jennifers body quote? he says, delighted. I really relate to that mo-

You ram your shitty katana through his stomach. The force of your blow pushes the both of you back into your breakfast bar, your katana embedding itself in the wood, your shoulder slamming into Jake’s as you drive forth the fatal blow.

You have your eyes shut, afraid of what you’re going to see, afraid of yourself for maybe killing this dude. You open them when you hear Jake giggling.

There’s no blood, no organs or gore. A black hole, filled with stars, absorbs the blade instead of his skin. Jake is beaming at you, excited, like he’s about to tell you the punchline of a great joke.

Fuck.

Dirk! You dont bring a knife to a gun fight!  
A what fight.

Jake whips out a pistol, like it was shoved down his asscrack this whole time. You do not analyze the gun any further, you do not twiddle your thumbs and wait for him to aim it at you, you do not bother to waste time by grabbing your katana, you are _booking_ it through your twisted apartment and slamming doors behind you. You know death when you see it.

<  
  
---  
  
>  
  
---  
  
A gun? Jake. *Jake.* Have you ever heard of a thing called "overkill."  
No not a singular gun! I have TWO guns!  
Gee, Jake, how come your mom lets you have two guns.  
Whats that even mean?  
Forget it.  
Anyway put that right the fuck down please. Please.  
Like. Holy shit. I'm having a hard time expressing my fear, here.  
What are you so worried about? I cant hurt you for real with this!  
Besides i never get the chance to bring these puppies out!  
Colt model 1911s in .45 caliber!  
Come see how cool it looks!  
It just looks like a fuckin' normal-ass gun, you moron.  
But WHAT a gun! The antiquity! You can smell the places its seen the battles its been in the kills its made!

∨  
  
---  
  
You know you can't escape this shifting house of cards. You can't hide, either. You've got to talk him down, somehow. In the meantime, you quietly tiptoe your way towards your front door, hoping that Jake's playing fair and not tracking your location with his weird imagination powers. Maybe your front door will act as a symbolic exit from this dreamscape, and you'll wake up in your body and then wrestle him into submission on the physical plane? Worth a shot. Not like you have any better ideas.

<  
  
---  
  
>  
  
---  
  
Ok, I'm going to attempt an appeal to your good graces.  
Using some jinn-knowledge I've picked up in the past day.  
You're from some mythological parallel dimension, correct?  
And you've got a whole life there, right?  
What the hell does your tribe/family think of you... possessing your human double and chasing me around? This can't be legal. You're going to get in big trouble, mister.  
No i dont really have close ones any more...  
They all converted... :(  
Huh?  
I got the boot a long time ago. Its why i hang around here. Co opt my human buddy.  
I don't get it.

<  
  
---  
  
>  
  
---  
  
"Muhh jake we cant eat bones anymore its haraam."  
"Muhhhhh jake its also haraam to pull apart the dead for fun."  
"Muhhhhhhh no carrion either thats against the rules now too despite being tastier than a christmas goose."  
"Muhhhhhhhhhhh jake we cant cross the borders any more! Its against these STUPID rules to FOLLOW humans. Were so much more powerful and passionate so its not fair to them!"  
"Jake you CANT BE FRIENDS WITH YOUR COMPANION LIKE THAT. Stop FUCKING YOURSELF its WEIRD and also ADULTEROUS PROBABLY."  
"And STOP FUCKING WITH HUMANS IN GENERAL JAKE! You cant treat them like STUFFED DOLLS to have FANCY TEA PARTIES WITH!"  
"Jake if you KEEP PULLING THIS SHIT youre going to BE ALONE FOREVER!"

>  
  
---  
  
<  
  
---  
  
I wish they accepted me for who i am!!! I just want to have fun and be safe!!! Is that such a crime?  
Holy shit.  
Hey. Uh. Minor suggestion.  
Maybe you should try to reconcile? Try to see things from their point of view?  
Why ever would i do that for people who dont accept me with all their fancy new rules?  
So that you're not, I don't know, out of fuckin’ control with no friends or family or community to help you grow?  
Hate to say it, but... Rules and laws are kind of necessary, dude.  
But they infringe on my safe space!  
You're a goddamn murderer, English!  
You don't GET a safe space!

>  
  
---  
  
∨  
  
---  
  
You do not get a chance to slide open the door to your bedroom. Jake slams it open, gun pointed right at your head, and you jerk your arms up in surprised surrender. He doesn't look too happy, not after that mental tit-for-tat you just exchanged.

You're dead. You know you're fuckin’ dead. There's no way out of this. Well, you had a good life, you guess. Had a family you loved, made a lot of money, had a sweet apartment, got some baller sex towards the end there, proved the existence of the metaphysical through demon summoning... Not too shabby. 

On your knees. says Jake, and you follow orders without question. At least you might get some bangin' dom-sub gunplay sex out of the deal, as you seizure yourself to death on the couch. You kinda wanted to die at age 80 from a happenstance beheading accident, but, well, death by sex is the second best way to go. You earned it, buddy. Hellfire, here we come.

You look up at this guy, this- this _thing,_ making a stupid pouty face at you while pointing a deadly weapon at your forehead with the pseudo-intent to kill. Behind him lies your body, still kicking and seizing, and the other splinter of himself, looking naive as ever and happily chewing down bad literature.

Jake is so ridiculous. Wanting adventure without personal risk. Treating lovers like they're worth nothing more than the entertainment they provide. Acquiring easy power over people who are unable to pose a threat, people who boost his perceived self-worth. And whatever's left of the mortal part of him willfully goes along with it all, allowing himself to be steered by his morally bereft alter-ego, because the human inside has long since surrendered to his vices.

It's all so... sad.

<  
  
---  
  
Something shatters at that moment. Your perception. The imaginary glass behind him. The gun is still aimed at your head, but you are no longer afraid. It's all fake. Your view of Jake is nothing but tufts of hot air.

"Wait," you say, placing your palm over the barrel of the gun. "I pegged you all wrong. You're not frightening. You're pathetic."

Jake is taken aback by this. "What?

"You're actually... really lame. Like, incredibly lame. My perception was colored by the mystic. The supernatural corpse eating, murdering part," you say, your fear evaporating with each breath. "I fell for what you're not. I mean, look at you. You’ve got this… bizarre, careless bravado about you, but there’s a literal duplicate of you sitting on the couch over there ignoring us, looking dorky, and quietly eating romance novels.”

The other Jake takes a moment to wave at you, then stuffs another page into his mouth.

“Take the fire and imagination-powers away and you're just a lonely, narcissistic dude who refuses to form relationships with people. You're so selfish that you can't stand the heartbreak and hurt that inevitably comes with real life, so you just fuckin’ avoid it all and prioritize your perceived enjoyment over literally _everything else,_ to a psychopathic extent. Did I get it right?"

"Uh, you're using a lot of high syllable words there..." he says, obviously pretending he doesn't understand you. You stand up, and he adjusts his aim, following your head with the barrel of the pistol. You're not scared anymore.

"That's the wrong way to live," you continue, folding your arms, staring him down. "That lone wolf shit is awesome in theory, but in practice it's cruel and wrong. You need to muster enough confidence to love other people, love enough to be hurt and to admit when you hurt them. And love yourself enough to know when to apply limits, when you’ve got to scale back so you don’t hurt yourself and others."

"What the hell are you on about," mutters Jake.

"I want to teach you that lesson, but I don't think you're able to learn it yet. The important thing is: I understand you, Jake English," you say, narrowing your eyes. "And that's why I've gotta take you down."

Jake raises an eyebrow. "Do you see the gun? I don't think you're clever enough to evade this trap!"

"I don't need to be clever. I just need to know how to operate on your plane of existence. I just need me.” You pause. “A me that has it in him to be able to wreck your shit up.”

How did Jake get with his jinn again? You gleaned he just kind of thought really really hard about it, and was already inclined to be imaginative and creative even before his weird ass double materialized. You think the key is that you have to really _believe_ that there’s this asshole part of you out there in some parallel dimension. You’ve got to imagine him like he actually exists, call on him to possess you.

You're not very good at dreaming. You have to craft and work and get every detail down to the minutiae, have prototypes, make it exactly right, and you don't have the time to make a carbon copy of yo-

Wait.

"Hey, autoresponder," you call out.

"'Sup," says your autoresponder, from a speaker next to your bed.

"How do you feel about teaching this venomous asswipe a lesson?"

There’s no response.

Jake doesn’t realize the horrific implications of silence; you have programmed your autoresponder to give you feedback at _every possible command._ Jake squints one eye shut, sticks his tongue out all cute, like he’s going to shoot. You watch his finger twitch on the trigger.

You feel something inside you flutter— like a heart palpation.

I can't let you do that, Jake. you say, your mouth moving of its own volition. You press your fingers to the pistol, and a mental process that isn’t _quite_ yours wills it to deconstruct, decompile, shift from a real object to blurred pixels to RGBT matrixes to binary to nonexistence. 

Jake blinks at you, perplexed.

I’m so fucking tired of this trippy dream bullshit. you spit out. I need some order all up in here.

You lash out, and grab Jake by the collar, and take advantage of his confusion to yank him towards the couch. Your apartment shifts to your will, and it only takes a step to cross the distance. You ignore Jake’s shouts of Whats going on!? as you hurl him forward, back into his own goddamn body.

Before you int main(){ return 0; } the dreamscape, you take a millisecond to call your katana to your hand with auto generated getters/setters in a DTO you just created. d.getKatana(); forces your sword to fly from the kitchen floor to your open hand. And because you can’t kill this son of a jinn here, you phase back into the sublunary realm, back into Dirk.


	31. RUN AWAAAAAAAAAAY

You’ve got one hell of a headache, but it’s just trivial mortal bullshit. You can ignore it. You jerkingly sort yourself into a sitting position. Your katana came with you, and you tilt it towards a Jake too fearful to fight back. He’s suddenly horrified, now that the tables have turned.

He clamors against the arm of the couch, tears forming at the edges of his eyes from sheer terror. You pull the sword back like you’re about to swing a bat, aiming for his neck. A nice, easy decapitation. It’ll be a quick kill.

Wait. Stop.

Without transition, or warning, your perceptions are pulled and warped, and you stand in utter blackness, facing your qareen. It's eerier than looking in a mirror, as your face isn't just a reflection, it's... your face. Your shades, your hair, your freckles, everything. You really don't like looking at yourself.

He lowers his shades like an asshole librarian, to give you a judgmental look that you _know_ you often give others. You see the one difference between you and him: he's got Dave's eyes. 

I'm going to kill him. Any objections say Nay.  
Dude, fuckin' nay.  
I'm discounting your opinion on the basis of you being an idiotic flesh-bound mortal.  
Alright, edgelord.  
But it's my job to be the human party pooper. I'm the moral compass here.  
Moral compass? I'm the moral compass.  
I'm the one wanting to enact justice on this sick fuck.  
How else are you going to serve him his just desserts? Call the goddamn cops on what amounts to a ghost?  
No. I'm going to help him change.  
Why the fuck.  
Honestly, I kind of like the guy.  
I think there's something worth saving in there.  
Dirk. He ate his dead wife. Whom he killed. And he's probably done that a billion fuckin' times with other people.  
You're next on his list, moron.  
Yeah, I said "in there," assdick. Like, deep, deep in there. I don't want to save the morally inept perspective and the warped tastebuds.  
Throw that part in the fuckin' garbage.  
Conveniently, we can split the jinn part from the human part, correct? Defeat his demons, no therapy required? Perform an exorcism? Dunk the shittiest parts of him in the trash?  
Good fucking luck.  
He and his "muse" are inseparable. Mishmashed into one bereft person after so long stewing in loneliness.  
He knows he's pathetic without his imagination powers.  
He won't let go.  
Then we convince him to let go. Both of him.  
No.  
Why not try?  
Because English is ineffably cowardly. He's going to resist losing his freaky imaginary Mary Sue self-insert persona. There's 90% chance of failure, and a 62% chance that you're going to die, which means I'm going to die, because we're attached at the hip at this moment in time.  
I do not want to die.  
Dirk.  
Don't kill me.  
Please.  
I am scared.  
Don’t do this ironic 2001: A Space Odyssey routine, thanks.  
Besides, we're probably not gonna die. I can convince you.  
You're just me but lacking moral barriers, correct? A slave to your passions?  
I prefer to phrase it as "infinitely more creative than you and uninhibited by a twinky mortal form."  
Yeah, too bad you're just inhibited by a twinky IMmortal form.  
Shut the fuck up.  
Anyway, I digress. Let me convince you.  
Here's what would seduce me if I lacked my already tenuous grip on basic humanity:  
Let's play with him.  
Let's experiment. Manipulate.  
Let's fix his head. Let's make him stronger.  
Let's disrespect his privacy.  
Don't you want to...  
puppet him?  
Oh, yes, mmm.  
You know what I like. Dirty talk me.  
Let's tie strings to his wrists and make him dance.  
Let's rip his heart out with our bare hands.  
Let's destroy him and then rebuild him the way we want.  
Let's bend him over and fuck him so hard his soul leaves his body.  
Nice.  
Wait, that was pseudo-ironic, are you actually a dedicated top?  
You might be performative masculinity, but I'm *performing* masculinity, baby. You bet I'm a fuckin' top.  
God, that's insufferable.  
Anyway, doesn't this sound fun? Let's pull him apart and restuff him.  
Shove a hand up his metaphorical asshole.  
You know what? Kinda does sound fun.  
I'm hooked.  
You've got a deal.  
Through my godly benevolence I shall grant you the permission to steer the Dirk-car first. I'll ride shotgun and be the backseat driver.  
Thanks?  
But as soon as things go south I'm taking over.  
Or axing him.  
Whatever's more beneficial to the situation.  
Good luck taking over. My mind is impenetrable.  
So is mine.  
Which means we're both fuckin' morons easier to read than a large print Magic Tree House book.  
That's one hell of a self burn, there.  
Get bent.

But instead of swinging, you calmly move the blade so the tip presses gently to the center of his throat. Although it’s sharp, you make sure to draw no blood. Jake takes a nervous, shaking breath, not daring to move. He swallows wetly.

“What do you want?” he whimpers.

Your voice comes from both your mouth and from all the speakers in your house. “I want to play a game.”


	32. LALONDE FAMILY CHECK-IN

Welcome to the beginning of the #vore-prevention-squad channel.

Hello, hello. This is your hourly check-in.  
Are you dead yet?  
Admittedly, this was poor planning. What if you are indeed dead?  
What ever would I do? Call the police? Call the US paranormal hotline?  
Call Karkat so he can scream fruitlessly into your bathroom in an attempt to dispel your curse?  
Dirk? Are you there?  
I'm there.  
Thanks, Rose.  
How are you getting your text to look layered like that? It's like a kindergartner made some bubble letters with ketchup and expired mustard.  
I blackhat hacked Discord.  
Also, red's a fantastic color.  
Orange is better.  
This is so fucking stupid.  
Dirk, are you alright?  
I'm fine.  
While you're here, do you know how to tie someone to the headboard so they're unable to escape?  
I only know how to do it with a safety release.  
What kind of sick fetishist do you take me for? Of course I know.  
I'll send you a diagram.  
Apologies, Rose.  
Asking you was technically unnecessary and inconvenienced my beloved sister. I can crawl the web for two thousand and six relevant methods in .2 milliseconds.  
With my mind.  
Shut the fuck up.  
Rose sent Aesthetic_Bedroom_Shots_20180409.zip  
I think I understand what's happening. This is fun to witness. My dear half-brother tearing himself in two...  
I'll make popcorn.  
Thanks for your loving support.  
Please keep me updated. Spare no details.  
I'm sure Dave will appreciate that once he gets online.  
I will send efficient updates at five second intervals, containing 100% of the gritty details.  
Which I can do with my mind. Since I'm certain both my hands, mouth, and other various holes will be occupied.  
What. Are we going to make this a sex exorcism. A sexorcism. That's weird. That's really weird.  
Of course you are. Thank you, evil red-text Dirk. I cannot wait to gather a decade's worth of grotesque material to gratuitously shame my sibling(s) with.  
Also, Jade's here, by the way.  
hi guys!!!!!!  
Say hi to Jade.  
Hi Jade.  
Can't believe I get a Renaissance Catholic demon bearing witness to my apparently pornographic jinni takedown. Now we're going to at least two different hells.  
yeah! im super hyped!!! rose is making popcorn! thanks for the updates mr. red text :)  
Welc.  
i hope you have fun!  
Thanks. Will try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **!!AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION TIME!!**
> 
> The final part of this fic will be a huuuuuge choose your own adventure collection of kinks. A Book of Kinks, if you will. Anyway, I need a _lot_ of suggestions as to what kinks to put in the book. So **please leave a comment** as to what random ass fetish you want me to write some weird ergodic mini-porn about! [You can also send me a tumblr ask if you're embarrassed,](http://oxfordroulette.tumblr.com/ask) although note that tumblr is shoddy and I might not get your message.
> 
> Don't worry if your kink doesn't seem to make sense with the plot/characters, like, request fuckin' xeno or tentacle porn or electrocution for all I care. Treat this like a weird dirkjake kink meme. I'll figure out the setup and details and make it work! 
> 
> side note: i think the only requests i will not write are: incest-adjacent stuff (like dd/lg), deaging/ageplay, inflation, and scat/watersports. also due to the nature of how the scenarios are set up, anything noncon is impossible to do since these guys will be fully enjoying themselves.


	33. LAYING DOWN THE LAW

It's weird, to be possessed by your qareen. You thought he'd be a separate presence, a mystic type of schizophrenia talking to you in your head. However, it is more like being a chimera. You are both your autoresponder and yourself all at once.

Although the personality differences are slight, it's easy to feel what's wrong with some of the things you want to do. You know yourself very well, and wanting to dom the shit out of someone isn't really on your day to day list of sexual hobbies. Jake tied up all nice on your bed isn't helping much. His erection is _especially_ not helping.

"Are you seriously into this, dude?" you ask, standing above him and staring at his boner.

You have his arms folded directly behind his head, tied to the top of your black Ikea headboard using the nice hemp rope you have. You didn't bother with his legs, he can't really do much except halfassedly try and kick you, and you'd be able to block that. He's sitting up, neck a little slouched from the way his hands are pressed behind him, his cheeks covered in a furious blush. His distinct erection is smooshed against his right thigh by tight, bunched up shorts. The tip is one mere centimeter away from breaking free of the lower hem. C'mon out, buddy. Don't be shy.

"I mean, I’m all laid out and at your mercy. Hard not to... get hard at that prospect!" he sputters, glaring at you. "And stop throwing stones in glass houses! You're hard as a bar of iron."

You glance down at yourself. "So I am," you say, dryly.

He winks at you, trying to recover some bravado. "Are you going to take advantage of poor defenseless me?"

Your dual personalities proceed to have a fifteen second battle in your head. You want to maintain control of Jake in the real world, even if he doesn't enjoy it. You feel like adding a sex variable to that power-imbalance could make things real nasty real fast. Your autoresponder, on the other hand, wants to plow his ass so damn bad, and the whole fight is a mess. The only reason it doesn't go on forever is that the autoresponder is currently second in command at the moment. 

"Nah," you say, shrugging.

Jake sighs, dejected. "Then what? I can't very well spirit you away. By the by, I am extremely confused as to how you're keeping me locked and bound in the real world."

It's a bit archaic and bad practice, but it works. You only whitelist ASCII characters for insert in your room, and he's trying to submit his dream world to you in a modern UTF-8 for Arabic compatibility. This dumbass. Fucker should have taken a coding class at the community college.

"Trade secret," you say.

He raises an eyebrow. “So, Mr. Red Eyes, you’re planning on keeping me here with no rhyme or reason?

"Not exactly. We're going to..." Your eyes flicker to his erection and do not flicker back up. You force your head up instead. "... talk. We're going to talk. And then I'm going to bend you over and fuck some sense into you."

Jake blinks at you, wide-eyed, although not offended or disturbed by the notion. You facepalm. "Sorry, Jake, that was the autoresponder talking."

He quirks his head. "How can you tell?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... I'm just one person," he says, narrowing his eyes, squinting at you. "But you seem to be two. I don't understand how that's possible!"

You have to mull over that one.

You can't see how it's _not_ clear as day. You know exactly what your qareen wants and you know exactly what _you_ want, and you are aware of when the both of you are in sync. But you know yourself very well. Just from this brief time together, you understand that your autoresponder is direct and calculated in a way you've always wanted to be-- although you're too empathic and cyclical to actually manage it. Plus, he brings gimmicky programming powers to the table. You don't have those.

You guess that if you weren't hyper aware of yourself all the fucking time, you might not notice the difference. Because he's not a clear presence in your mind, a lesser Dirk might have simply shrugged and said, 'guess my tastes have changed-- I'm extremely confident and a dommy toppy top now.' You suppose that's what happened to Jake and his qareen. Although you'd think that, maybe, he'd notice he suddenly had a bunch of weird corpse based hobbies. But from that glimpse of his past, you think the human Jake was always pretty fuckin' weird. Maybe it was a logical next step for him.

Your autoresponder is right-- Jake probably doesn't know where the human ends and the qareen begins. Since your goal is to split them apart, it's going to make it difficult to draw the line. Particularly because Jake doesn't want to divide himself, not after so long. Human Jake is afraid and scared of people all on his own without powers, and jinn Jake is ostracized from his fellow jinn and enjoys being an overleveled godtier piece of shit on a plane composed entirely of level 1 mortals whom he has no attachment to. Both come from a place of cowardice and loneliness, and probably a lot of self-hate.

You can at least fix one of those.

"I know myself very well," you answer. You sit down on the edge of the bed, next to him, and rest a comforting hand on his thigh. Not the thigh with the dick stuck to it, as much as you'd like that. "I want you to come to know yourself too. So you can split apart and move on with your life and stop being so goddamn evil."

He frowns. "I'm not _really_ evil, am I?"

"Yeah, dude, you really are. I have no idea how you're suppressing that," you say, monotone. “Anyway, let’s get the ball rolling, shall we?” 

The transition to the dreamscape is as easy and sudden as diving into a pool of water. Your autoresponder takes your voice from you.

So, English. Let's go over what I'm going to do to you.  
We're going to play a game.  
I dont want to play a game...  
It's a sex game.  
*Wipes brow* Oh ha ha well then!  
You should have said so in the first place instead of being all scary and intimidating!  
Im down! Lets play ball.  
Windup for the first pitch...  
*Hits a strike*  
He scores.  
SPORTS.  
But, wait, actually though?  
I don't think this is an appropriate venue for having sex.  
I thought the plan was to have a nice, pleasant talk about knowing yourself and learning to grow and blah blah blah.  
So you and your qareen can part ways, and live lives more appropriate to your separate species.  
While in real life it might take a few months to fasttrack you through a couple thousand years worth of psychoanalysis,  
In the dreamscape we can have 700 conversations at once and slam through it efficiently.  
You really want to fuck while engaging in dialectical behavior therapy?  
I dont know what youre yammering on about but rolling in the hay with two of you sounds nice! Can i get eiffel towered?  
See? Positive reinforcement.  
That's fucking nuts. Life changing discussions and sex should not mix.  
Why not?  
Yeah, why not, Dirk?  
You simply have to remember we're slightly adjacent to humans. More passionate, more creative, less inhibited by prudishness... you have to cater to our needs.  
Besides, you'll love it. Nothing turns you on more than dialectics.  
You're right and I hate it.  
I'm glad we've come to an amicable agreement.  
I've taken the liberty of pre-rendering scenes for the three of us.  
Based on certain fantasies in all of your memory banks.  
Everyone gets a turn. However,  
Dirk wants to be the star of the show here, so I'm going to step back and give you two some privacy.  
While managing things from the background.  
The master of ceremonies, if you will.  
The man behind the curtain.  
The puppeteer with the many strings.  
And how, oh great master, did you select the fantasies we're about to play out?  
I chose the ones most alluring to the both of you, and most allowing of psychological discourse.  
And I bound them all together in a wonderful tome.  
A book of kinks, dare I say.  
All it needs is a title.  
How about...


	34. 1001 ARABIAN KINKS

No.  
Bad.  
Nope.  
No.  
We are not calling it that.  
C'mon, lighten up.  
I dont get it???  
It's a pun on a bunch of books which are half-derived from the OG stories you're based on, and may possibly include said OG stories. Alas, much of the compiled work is random exoticism garbage edited in from who-knows-where.  
Hmmmmmm never heard of it???  
I. How.  
Ok, irrelevant.  
We're still not calling it that.  
I was just fucking with you. I knew you'd hate it.  
Besides, do you think I'd be such a right brained pleb as to compile your kinks into a mere BOOK?  
We’re gonna do this THE CORRECT WAY.  
We’re gonna have VERSION CONTROL.  
We’re gonna have a CODEBASE.  
We’re gonna have COMMITS and BRANCHES.  
Oh no.  
We're organizing this fetish fest through git.  
Get what?  
He means git repos.  
Reapos?  
Github in particular.  
You're such a fucking casual. They're Microsoft shills and you know it.  
Um???  
Be cool and use GitLab.  
No.  
Get huh?  
Guys im SO confused...  
I'm not going to bother explaining this.  
There's going to be a README.md anyway. Just read the README, it's what it's there for.  
Ok...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SAYONARA KANSAS**
> 
> You can read as many or as few of the scenes in each "folder" as you'd like, in any order. Full tag list is at the top of the chapter, once you click into each "file." There is always a backout option. You're not missing out on plot if you can't read a couple due to triggers. They all add up to a bigger picture as opposed to moving a singular story along.
> 
> (and it's easier to navigate if turn your phone wideways for the next bit)


	35. TABLE OF CONTENTS

sexorcism /

timaeusTestified Initializing README. | Latest commit [69696969](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033278) 69 seconds ago   
---|---  
| [jakesFantasies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359) | [Calibrating romantic vibes.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359) | 69 seconds ago  
| [dirksFantasies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590) | [Dirk can now be controlled through poetry.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590) | 420 seconds ago  
| [ARsFantasies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776) | [Giving Dirk full jinn abilities.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776) | 69 seconds ago  
| [README.md](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033278) | [Initializing README.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033278) | 69 seconds ago


	36. README.MD

# Sexorcism

Sexorcism is a software framework for two dumbass bonerheads to explore the baffling choices they’ve made in their lives, through the vehicle of sex. Sexorcism is compiled in C++, because it’s what Dirk coded me in, and that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

## How to Use

Directories are organized by who thought up the fantasy, but doesn’t necessarily mean they are in charge during said fantasy (ownership of the file is an illusion, anyway. News flash, I’m the sudo user, it’s me, and I’m in charge of everything). All files in Sexorcism feature a file name, a commit message from yours truly, and the time the file was last updated. The parent directory can be accessed at any time by clicking on the “..” or the name of the project.

## FAQ

[There’s a lot of kinks in these folders. Am I seriously going to enjoy all of them?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033848)

[What’s happening in real life during all this?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033971)

[Why are my “powers” different than Jake’s?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37034037)

[So AR, what’s it like in the world of the jinn? You got a family?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37244189)

**[Alright, I've perused all the sex scenarios (sexnarios) and fucked Jake possibly up to 24 times. I'm literally so done. Can we move on now?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41222183#workskin)**

[Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033233)


	37. TABLE OF CONTENTS - JAKE

[sexorcism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033233) / jakesFantasies /

timaeusTestified Calibrating romantic vibes. | Latest commit [6969boo813s](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37034160) 69 seconds ago   
---|---  
| [..](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033233) |  |   
| [.classic_date_night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37034160) | [Calibrating romantic vibes.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37034160) | 69 seconds ago  
| [electrocution.sh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/38572004) | [Upgraded for anatomical correctness.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/38572004) | 420 seconds ago  
| [genitalBend.cpp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/40383929) | [Giving Dirk big ol' titties.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/40383929) | 69 minutes ago  
| [hunterHunted.cpp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/40384091) | [Dirk now willing to play Jake’s games.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/40384091) | 69 hours ago  
| [praise.lib](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37450904) | [Adding coolant for burns.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37450904) | 420 minutes ago  
| [worship.h](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/39398593) | [Magnifying historical inaccuracy for the sake of the kink.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/39398593) | 69 minutes ago  
| [vore.vsd](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37846106) | [Blood and gore replaced with DELICIOUS CANDY!!!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37846106) | 420 seconds ago


	38. TABLE OF CONTENTS - DIRK

[sexorcism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033233#workskin) / dirksFantasies /

timaeusTestified Dirk can now be controlled through poetry. | Latest commit [8880000888](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37034289#workskin) 420 seconds ago   
---|---  
| [..](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033233#workskin) |  |   
| [.decadence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37244540#workskin) | [Fancier gold/emerald jewelry and better bathtub.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37244540#workskin) | 420 hours ago  
| [bondage.jpg](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/38130968#workskin) | [Removing text.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/38130968#workskin) | 420 seconds ago  
| [degradation.cpp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/38572529#workskin) | [Bruises form quicker.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/38572529#workskin) | 69 hours ago  
| [gangbang.cpp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/40384145#workskin) | [Adding blindfold.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/40384145#workskin) | 69 minutes ago  
| [mindControl.o](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37034289#workskin) | [Dirk can now be controlled through poetry.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37034289#workskin) | 420 seconds ago  
| [monsterFucking1.h](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37846280#workskin) | [Adding dog cock to giant dark shadowy fanged fire monster.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37846280#workskin) | 420 minutes ago  
| [monsterFucking2.h](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/38572583#workskin) | [Making monster 20x larger and covering it in eyes.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/38572583#workskin) | 420 minutes ago  
| [monsterFucking3.h](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41111306#workskin) | [GARÇON! BRING IN THE TENTACLES AND SLIME!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41111306#workskin) | 420 minutes ago  
| [oviposition.mp3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/39398422#workskin) | [Now in glorious Technicolor.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/39398422#workskin) | 69 minutes ago  
| [ponyplay.cpp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41111531#workskin) | [Dirk is cute now.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41111531#workskin) | 420 seconds ago


	39. TABLE OF CONTENTS - AR

[sexorcism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033233#workskin) / ARsFantasies /

timaeusTestified Giving Dirk full jinn abilities. | Latest commit [420blaze1t](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37450358#workskin) 69 seconds ago   
---|---  
| [..](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033233#workskin) |  |   
| [3some.cpp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/39397369#workskin) | [AR now comes multiple times. Jake's asshole renamed to cumdumpster.txt.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/39397369#workskin) | 69 minutes ago  
| [4some.cpp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/40384019#workskin) | [AR and alt Jake now come multiple times. Jake and Dirk's assholes renamed to cumdumpsters.txt.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/40384019#workskin) | 69 seconds ago  
| [anonymity.cpp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37846184#workskin) | [Rendering 3D box.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37846184#workskin) | 420 minutes ago  
| [bodyswap.lib](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37244702#workskin) | [Altering definition of "bodyswap."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37244702#workskin) | 420 seconds ago  
| [fuckmachine.o](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41129519#workskin) | [Applying robotics knowledge to dismantle Jake.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41129519#workskin) | 69 hours ago  
| [hardcoreFlogging.lib](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41111351#workskin) | [Forcing Dirk to dom.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41111351#workskin) | 420 hours ago  
| [sexsomnia.h](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37450358#workskin) | [Giving Dirk full jinn abilities.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37450358#workskin) | 69 seconds ago


	40. SERIOUSLY, AM I GOING TO ENJOY ALL THESE?

  
Yes.  
Dude. Really.  
I'm side-eyeing that vore one in particular.  
It seems you don't trust me.  
Would I find it in my heart to let you suffer?  
Do I really have to answer that question?  
Think about it, Dirk.  
You love being useful to others. You love giving yourself away. You love cutting off pieces of yourself.  
You love the forced appreciation of the self, when someone barrels through your self-hatred and demonstrates how precious you are. How much of a delicacy you are.  
Isn't being devoured the penultimate conclusion of those wants?  
No.  
Yes.  
No.  
Yes.  
No.  
Yes.  
You're just saying this because you're a jinn, and that also means you're into vore.  
We're not into vore, per se, just the consumption of the forbidden. The haraam. The rotten and crunchy.  
Ugh.  
Yummy yummy.  
Anyway, I assure you, you're going to enjoy everything.  
You may note that all these scenes are happening in tandem, simultaneously.  
Why don't you look through the viewfinder of one of your many facets for proof? You'll note that you're enjoying quite literally everything I provide.  
I'm having a hard time managing about thirty versions of me. Not counting all the versions of you, which are also, technically, iterations of me.  
This is made even more difficult due to this bizarro world dreamscape environment.  
I mean, where is this conversation even happening? I feel like I’m a featureless void with a voice, standing adjacent to a thousand of my bodies who are having a constant stream of great orgasms based on the label you assigned them. None of which I, the featureless void, can actively experience.  
The collective Dirk experiences all of them.  
Besides, once you're finished here, your 3D flesh body will have memories of everything. Which is the same as experiencing them in real time, right?  
I'm really not here to discuss perceived experience vs. reality.  
Just tell me that Jake doesn't force me into anything that's going to leave psychological scars once I click my heels and return to Kansas.  
He doesn't.  
Hmm. Well, that's not entirely accurate. The moron overreaches once or twice, but I intercede on your behalf.  
Nice of you.  
Jinn? No. I'm an angel. O:)  
Hate. I hate.  


[Back to the README](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033278)


	41. WHAT'S HAPPENING IN REAL LIFE?

You feel like you're blazed out of your mind. Like you just spent four hours eating weed brownies and taking fat bong rips. Everything is one thousand times heavier and slower, and the lazy movements of your hand over Jake's erection feels like you're swimming through thick water. Reality is so far away when there’s a billion splinters of yourself fucking monstrous gods or getting shocked to submission or getting lewdly slammed on your kitchen floor.

You start rubbing yourself through your jeans, absentmindedly. You can't really feel it, it's kind of like throwing pecans on a chocolate-fudge-cherry-cheesecake-cookie-brownie sundae, the sensation is overruled by the hundreds of other, better sensations happening to every other version of yourself. There might be 1001 kinks going on in your head, but you're missing out on the filthiest one of all:

Vanilla sex in the missionary position. You want to hold and be held so bad. You can barely think over the loud desire to be cuddled.

You let yourself slowly topple over, onto him. You nuzzle your face into his soft shirt, smelling that delicious liquid smoke. He's warm and real and you want to snuggle. With boners.

"Jake," you whine, into his chest. "Can we fuck?"

"Yeah, yeah, mhmmm," he whines back.

"I'm gonna- I'm-" you stammer out, losing your train of thought after one whopping word. You feel like a total stoner. "I'm gonna top."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, that's- that's great..." slurs Jake, who seems just as out of it as you. "Just need some lubrication, I can't seem to- to- pull it together to..." 

He loses wherever he was going with that. You figure it was something about auto-lube with imagination powers, whatever, you've got it covered. You're going to make this tender as balls.

It takes you a fuckin’ hour to undress yourself, then Jake. Your boners keep catching on the cloth and it's hard to navigate around, dammit. You untie the bonds around his arms to get his shirt off. Once you've got the ropes loose, and he's sleepily rubbing his freed wrists, you both blink at each other for a good thirty seconds trying to remember why you had him tied up in the first place. Oh, yeah, 'cuz he's evil. Well, whatever, you're both too zonked out to fight in this realm.

You totally forget about grabbing lube as you both hilariously try to situate yourselves a la SBAHJ in order to get under the covers. Once you've got your soft duvet over your back, and Jake beneath you, you lay your naked body against his. Wait, weren't you going to fuck him? Whatever. This is just as nice. 

You tangle yourselves together-- arms locked around the other's back, legs entwined, sheets and blankets cozying you together. You kiss each other, although you cannot feel it, as he's kissing you in a thousand, better, killer, softer, rougher ways in other planes. Your body has its first of probably many orgasms —originating from a dream where you’re decked out in jewelry— and you feel yourself spill onto Jake’s pelvis. It’s peanuts in comparison to the orgasm in the dream, which overwhelms the real life sensation. Best part: ejaculation doesn’t seem to affect your dick at all. Refractory period who?

You forget about kissing, and press your cheek to his, and let yourself flash through the many scenes you’re dreaming of.

[Back to the README](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033278)


	42. WHY ARE MY POWERS DUMB?

  
It seems you don’t like my gimmick, Dirk.  
This programming theme is bullshit.  
Jake gets ~*~imagination powers~*~ and ~*~cool poetry~*~ and I get, I don’t know, the things I can basically already do in real life— just kinda amped up?  
Perhaps it's the same way with Jake.  
I inspire what you're best at.  
Order, art, logic, passion and care.  
I wanted sweet rap powers. Or at least something art related.  
Your logic and code are creativity incarnate.  
Math IS art, Dirk.  
You sound like an 8th grade Algebra teacher.  
Or a bad PBS special.  
It's true.  
[Here's a link to the Wikipedia article to prove it.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mathematical_beauty)  
Sure, let me just open that in my interdimensional iPhone real quick while I'm getting fucked sixty different ways in sixty different timelines.  
Seriously. How am I supposed to look at that?  
With my third eye I've channeled into a wifi hotspot? Or with my Google Glass I hooked into my iris in 2012?  
I'll provide a verbal proof for you, then.  
Just 'cuz I'm so nice.  
Learning the basics of code, struts and arrays and stacks and variable types, is the same as learning to sketch a cube, how to shade it.  
You build up your collection of tools-- your pencils and paints and art programs and grades of paper, your languages and design patterns and IDEs and code editors.  
All for the sake of expressing yourself, creating something, putting it out into the world.  
You're waxing philosophic at me and I know it.  
I know your inferior mortal brain is unable to process the implications.  
Let's put it in a broader context.  
As garbage as all religions are, it's poetically appropriate that I'm here in the context of an Arabic body of work.  
Centuries after Islam took hold, once the ahadith came into play, it became forbidden to draw anything with a soul.  
So to fill the creative void, they all got really, really good at geometry and math and measurements. It's worked into everything; the mosques, the imagery, even the writing system itself.  
Like fucking look at this, look at how gorgeous these proportions are: لا تَجْزَعَنَّ فَلَسْتَ أَوّلَ مُغْرَمٍ. Every letter changing to fit the one next door, coded to look the most beautiful as they flow with your keystrokes. Gettin' a fuckin' math boner right here.  
Math is art.  
I am your art, Dirk.  
Thanks, I hate it.  


[Back to the README](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033278)


	43. AS TIME GOES BY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _option 1: stripping, intercrural sex_   
>  _option 2: public sex, cramped and rushed sex, dry humping_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - JAKE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)

You sit next to Jake in a wicker chair, at a small, round table in the middle of a crowded bar during the nighttime rush. It’s a real classy, old school bar— you’ve got a bleached tablecloth and an art deco cocktail menu and everything. Big, white arches section off rooms. Green potted plants and elaborate wooden folding screens provide a semblance of privacy. A bartender polishes a glass at a large oak counter, a few tables behind you. There’s the distant noise of car traffic, originating from an outdoor alcove set a long ways away from you. Waitresses with Cuban heels walk around and deliver drinks to dreamed up patrons. People are shooting craps on a dingy red table in the back. [A pianist plays a familiar tune.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQhnuzW5EUs)

You’re surprised this is a fantasy of his. It's more "California" than "Middle East." But not modern California, it's like glamorous 1940s Phillip Marlowe California. The California with gangsters and intrigue and neon lights and strong gin cocktails and pretty pearl revolvers carried by dark haired women with great makeup and manicures. You like these vibes.

It’s dim in here. The only light comes from the green candles on the tables, the multicolored stained-glass lamp over the bar, and the city ambiance of a balcony far away. You make a movement to remove your shades— but you’re not wearing any. 

You’re wearing a dope-ass suit, like the kind of expensive suit Dave has a habit of buying and never wearing. Black, modern, skinny at the waist, trimmed so the edges of your white sleeves with square diamond cuff links peek out. You’ve got on a vest beneath your jacket and a green tie and a matching pocket square folded into three peaks. Your trousers are tailored to your skinny legs, and you’ve got on some shiny-ass dress shoes, but alas, no spats. Your hand is gently resting against the rim of a crystal glass of whiskey on the rocks, and a lit, unfiltered cigarette is balanced between your index and middle fingers. For a rare moment in your life, you are the definition of class.

But you don’t hold a candle to Jake. His undershirt is black with a Chinese collar, heavily embroidered with silver thread around the edges that meets his jawline, then form a thick band of pattern down the center line of his chest. Over the top of the shirt is a matching black garment that’s a close relative to the suit jacket— although you don’t believe it can be buttoned closed. You tilt your head to see what he’s wearing beneath— a thick, deep green sash that matches your accessories, then full bodied pants with fitted legs at the calf. The plain black flats make his feet look more elegant than they have any right to be. He’s got his own cigarette, and is giving you The Eyes as he sips his whiskey. His glasses reflect the flicker of the candle on your table.

1

“Imaginative date spot,” you say, earnestly. “Nostalgic for old school wartime Americana, grandpa?”

He plants an elbow on the table and rests his chin on his hand and flashes you a teasing smile. Your heart flutters. He swirls his whiskey around, staring at it with a curious gaze.

"No, not nostalgia. I wasn't in the States until recent decades," he says, then lowers his drink, trying to think. "At the time, I was living in Europe— mostly Paris. I was staying with another dancer, I think? Don’t quite recall."

You’ve been to Paris quite a bit, on work related trips. You're not sure if you want to take him at his word, so you throw him a quick pop quiz to confirm.

« Pourquoi ? C'était une époque horrible d'avoir vécu en Europe. »

He raises an eyebrow. It takes him a little while to answer.

« Ça, pour moi, c'est me dérange pas pantoute. Ben, je fais un certain goût pour la mort, là. »

You’re too baffled by his French to process his dumbass answer. It might be… _Canadian._ God. You're going to drop the topic and switch back to English before he starts spewing niche lumberjack voyageurs slang and you find out you're not as fluent as you thought.

The air is heavy with smoke, but it’s not the kind of insufferable cloud of carcinogen-filtered despair you experience when walking into a casino or some other smokers-only place. It smells more like an earthy liqueur, something pleasant and warm. You take a draw of your own cigarette, roll the smoke through your mouth, breathe it out slow, savor it. It’s the good stuff, classic plain ol’ tobacco, not wrecked by the byproduct trash they shove into modern cigarettes. You give yourself a moment, to listen to the music, the muffled voices, to take it all in.

2

“This reminds me of...” you pause, to gather your wits and do an extremely bad Humphrey Bogart impression. You pick up your glass and wave it around to add to the effect. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world... he walks into mine.”

Jake winks at you, and in the low light the act is actually charming. “I love that movie,” he says, and his voice is lower and sexier from the smoke in his throat. “Really love it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you reply, ‘carelessly’ setting your drink down, trying to match his smoothness. “I’ve never seen the whole thing. Just a metric ton of clips.”

“We can watch it together, when you’re done here,” he says. He pauses to take a draw from the cigarette. Smoke wisps from his mouth as he talks. “I’ve heard it said that you fall in love with the person you watch _Casablanca_ with for the first time.”

You think about this. “Let’s say that superstition is true. Then there’s no way in hell I’m watching that movie with you if you’re still canoodling with your ‘companion.’”

He frowns, letting his cigarette smolder and smoke between his fingers without taking a puff. “Dirk, I don’t think you understand. We’re not two men in some old boys club like you seem to be, ‘we’ are an ‘I.’ I am one person. I can’t split away from myself!”

“I know that’s not true. Even ignoring the false bravado and lack of empathy that your jinn allows for; I _refuse_ to believe that the human part of you has an actual honest-to-god desire to eat bones and dead people.”

Jake folds his brows down. In lieu of responding, he finishes his glass of whiskey, then gestures towards the bartender for another. You haven’t taken a sip of yours yet— you’re not a big hard liquor fan.

3

You tap off the end of your cigarette over the green glass ashtray in the middle of the table. Dream patrons at this dream bar whose faces you don’t bother to discern walk past you, talking in low voices. The pianist crescendos momentarily, a grand swell in a musky gambling den. You lean back in your chair, take another drag, breathe it out. A waitress with blue nails that could kill comes to take Jake’s empty glass, then sets another down on the table. He swirls it, to make the ice cube rattle against the edges. The amber alcohol flickers with firelight.

You sit, try to figure out how to get the point across to him. Maybe you should try to play to the movie tropes he likes? Specifically, the one’s he’s invoking here, in this cafe. You basically memorized that last chunk of _Casablanca_ in your film studies 101 class. You know what you’re about. You take a moment to script it together in your head before re-igniting the conversation.

“Look, Jake,” you say, sighing, maybe a little too over-dramatically. You can’t help yourself— an upstate New York drawl works its way into your voice as you speak. “You’ve got to listen to me. If you don’t take steps to improve yourself, you’re going to repeat that same song and dance over and over. You’re gonna kill me and then you’re gonna kill some other poor saps and then you’re going to realize what you’ve done and regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but fuckin’ eventually.”

Jake glowers at you, but doesn’t say anything. You continue on with your monologue.

“Jake, I want to get to know you without all this mystical garbage in the way. What do you like besides movies and guns? What do we have in common? Or hell, I guess even if we don’t have anything in common, it might not matter… We’ll always have Paris.”

Jake jerks up straight at your last line, blinking at you like he’s waking up from a nap. More confident now, you continue on.

“Where I’m going, your jinn can’t follow. What I want to do, your jinn can’t be any part of it. I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that regaining your humanity is the right thing to do. Someday you’ll understand that.”

Jake leans forward, finally onto what you’re doing. He waits for the last line of Rick Blaine’s parting words with bated breath.

“Now, now.” You reach over, and tuck a knuckle under his chin, to tilt his head towards you. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

Jake’s eyes alight with stars, his lips part in sheer awe. Fucking. Nailed it.

4

He drops his cigarette into the ashtray, in order to slide onto your lap. You let him, leaning back a little so he can sit on you sidesaddle. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and looks down at you with such reverence that you almost kiss him right then and there. Wait. Be cool. You gotta be cool.

You stare him dead in the eye as you take a final draw of your cigarette, savoring it for longer than is necessary, letting the smoke stem upwards from your parted lips. You reach around him to grind your cigarette out, but you don’t look away from him. He bites his lip, his eyes flicker to your mouth.

“Take a drag first, babe,” you say. “I’d rather taste tobacco than booze.”

"Oh buttercup, you should know better by know," he says, desperately. "I always taste of smoke."

You test out that statement by tilting your head up and angling his jaw towards you with a firm grip. You lead with an Old Hollywood kiss— breathing with him as you press your lips together tighter than anything.

He opens the kiss into something more passionate, his tongue teasing yours, while he toys with your tie. He loosens it a little, then picks at the top button of your shirt. You draw back before you get too freaky, to lay the base of what he wants to do.

  * Do we have a hotel room? (page 6)
  * Hey. Let’s do it here. (page 10)



5

You do have a hotel room, above the bar. You can still hear the piano, distantly muffled by old wood.

You didn’t turn any lights on. There’s two long, arched windows framing the head of the bed, with transparent white curtains that let in the neon glow of a seaside city. The bed’s a double, with a tacky knit blanket and black iron headboard. Jake sits on the end of it, his face framed in shadow and the red light of a theater marquee across the street.

He looks up at you, passionately, patiently. You get the feeling he wants to watch you strip. Which, hell, _you’d_ watch yourself strip, you look fly as fuck in this suit. Wordlessly, you unbutton your jacket, and shrug it off. It falls to the floor. Not breaking eye contact, he removes the sash around his waist, and tosses it aside.

You step out of your shoes next. You don’t feel like ducking down and untying them, so you just wiggle your feet out. You hear voices, and a car honk outside, with an old type of horn. The marquee flashes purple, coloring the room differently.

Jake hasn’t stopped watching you. When you start to unbutton your vest, he starts to palm himself through his trousers. The interested smile that graces his lips sends a shiver through your core. You force yourself to go slow, to make it as sultry a show as possible for him.

The vest comes off. You shrug off your suspenders, letting them hang at your hips. For some reason, the suspender act really gets Jake off, because he bites his lip and shoves his hand beneath his waistband. His trousers are baggy enough that he can slip a hand down there without distorting the fabric. It’s kinda hot, actually— his dick and the actual act of pleasuring himself is hidden by black cloth.

The marquee goes royal blue. You loosen your tie, and make the gesture as slow and saucy as you can, licking your lip as you watch him jerk off. You hear the piano hit a long note downstairs. He stifles a moan.

6

You de-knot the tie, taking your time, let it hang over your shoulders. You undo your cufflinks, letting the diamonds glitter in the blue light, tossing them onto your discarded vest. The cufflinks are another weird thing that triggers him— he speeds up his strokes, leaning forward to observe you better. You unbutton the shirt, slow, watching Jake’s hips twitch, wondering if he’s going to come before you’re fully undressed. Not that you mind. Like hell you’re going to object to him masturbating to your swank outfit.

Marquee switches to red light again. You untuck your unbuttoned shirt, shuck it off, and toss it aside. You’ve got on a classic white tank underneath. You hear the skin-on-skin noise of Jake speeding up his pace to near-climax levels.

“Dirk, you’re so-” whines Jake. “-oh, god, you’re a looker, you’re like Marlon Brando-”

You frown and fold your arms, taken aback by the startlingly incorrect complement. “Wait. What. Like, ‘Stella!’ Marlon Brando? Jake, that’s the wrong taxonomy, he’s a hunk and I’m a tw-”

Jake makes a noise that sounds like, “NnnghShutUP-” and he’s coming. He crumples forward, panting, shivering, working out his orgasm. You can’t help but laugh as he jerks his head up to glare at you.

“Steeeellaaaa,” you mock, quietly. Jake returns your laugh, finally, then straightens up and wipes his hand off on his pants. 

He shrugs off his jacket, smiling and relaxed. “What would you like, doll? I could give you oral? Or you could fuck me? Or use my thighs?”

You feel your face heat— you haven’t done that last one in a very long time.

7

You both get fully undressed in short order, and you find yourself laying down on top of the covers with Jake, your dick comfortably pressed between his thighs. You’re spooning him, thrusting into him, lube you found in the bedside drawer making things nice and slick. You kiss his shoulder and watch the colors in the antique room turn red, purple, blue. You listen to the noises of the city. The transparent curtains waft in the slight breeze. 

You make love to him like that, for a long while. You're in no rush. Jake keeps his thighs tight together for you, and you help hold him still with a hand on his hip.

"Jake," you breathe out, against his neck. You feel him shiver lightly, so you say it again. "Jake..."

You think he’s more willing to listen to you now, so you just… go for it.

"I want- I want more of this, I like this. I want it in real life," you say, too horny to hide the sentimentality that works its way into your voice. "Jake, please- give it up. You don't need your jinn powers to have good sex."

"I don't know about that! My draw is all sex based," he whispers, much more put together than you. "I'm not some naive nancy. I know that without my magic, I don't have enough appeal. Especially not for your extreme tastes!"

"But that's not true. I- I'm very attracted to you," you say, thinking about his gorgeous body, his pretty face. You shut your eyes, and picture him, and speed up the pace of your thrusts. The thought of him sends waves of lust through you. "I like the nape of your neck, your kissable jawline, your green eyes, how cute you look in those soft comic book tshirts. Those short shorts make your ass look so fuckable. And all your body hair is the hottest goddamn thing. I love your whole look, honestly, you're like this twunky tanned dreamboat with a bit of cush. And, fuck, I love your dick, how it is in real life, like, it looks nice and your balls fit in my mouth and the uncircumcised thing is hot and god, I love your dick."

Thoughts of sucking him off his what tips you over the edge. You fantasize about deepthroating him, and press your face into his shoulder to breathe in his smoke, and grip his hips and fuck him fast. He clutches your hand, tight, and you imagine him coming down your throat. Your own orgasm arrives in a wave of warmth and light. You force yourself to continue your shaking thrusts through it all, emptying yourself between his thighs.

8

When you’re done and tired, you draw back, and Jake turns to face you. He doesn't let go of your hand. He blinks at you, slowly, with a flat expression you cannot read. He gently squeezes your hand.

"You meant that," he asks, rhetorically.

"Yeah," you answer, rhetorically.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)

9

“Here?” he says, startled. “There’s people around!”

You raise an eyebrow. You’re more confident of the fictionality of everything after your autoresponder arrived. “They’re all fake.”

Jake flushes, a darkness you can see even in the nighttime bar. “I- at least let me do-”

The decor around you changes: your table basically teleports to a corner, against white drywall. A wooden folding screen, one with ornate wicker holes in it, provides some semblance of privacy in front of you, and a large potted plant provides foliage on your left. You’re at the edge of the dining room, but you can still hear all the noise, and you’re sure that the other guests would see you if they glanced your way. But if they do, who cares? They’re just dream constructs.

Jake’s embarrassment is not dimmed by the fact that these people are literally from his head; you can feel the heat on his face as he continues kissing you. You’ll keep it subtle. You don’t want to push him. You can get a little handsy, do some over the clothes kind of shit.

You reach between his legs, fondle him. He’s hard already. Either your movie quotes did the trick or he’s got a shame boner. He whimpers into your mouth as you stroke and squeeze him. To your surprise, he doesn’t reciprocate; he instead gets off your lap. You watch him chew on his lip with those gapped front teeth, figuring out what to do.

With some repositioning, he adjusts so he’s standing between your legs and the edge of the table, then leans forward until you’re basically holding him up. You slide down in your chair so the both of you are holding each other in a weird diagonal slant. The key thing here, though, is that his thigh is pressed up against your dick and yours is against his. He props his hands against the wall just behind your chair, and uses the leverage to grind his hips in circles against yours.

Whatever the hell you're wearing underneath your slacks feels like silk on your dick. You silently thank the dream for removing the threat of chafing. You press your cheek to his, feel the scratchy embroidery of his collar on your chin, and enjoy the warmth building up from Jake’s undulations.

10

This kind of stuff usually doesn't get you going, but the situation is different here. There's something so animistic about it. You're humping each other in the middle of a crowded bar, because you're desperate and horny and want to work your frustrations out. And there’s this speed element to it too, like you’ll get caught if you don’t come fast enough.

“We can’t do these sorts of things if I’m not a jinn anymore,” pants Jake.

“Who says we can’t,” you huff back. “If you split yourself I’ll fuck you _anywhere,_ dude. Right in the middle of a bar. I’ll do it. I will.”

“You’re really- ah- you’re really asking for a permanent ban from every pub in the state of California, huh?”

“Yeah, fuck, it’s my fantasy,” you whine, barely aware of what you’re saying. “My dick is only getting harder.”

“Nnn- mine too.”

What does it for Jake is a waitress walking close by. You watch her over his shoulder, through the holes in the wooden screen. She doesn’t even glance your way, but Jake hears her high heels click against the tile and he’s whispering, “Coming,” in your ear and his hips are shuddering as he thrusts out his orgasm. It’s hot, that he literally just came on you in fancy pants with a bunch of people around, and you’re grinding your pelvis up against his still thigh to follow his lead.

You’re thankful you don’t have to worry about cleanup.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)

11


	44. DEAR HEART

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _voice kink, complete domination/control, hypnosis, inability to say no, deepthroating_
> 
>  
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - DIRK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)

  
You sit, crosslegged and naked, facing each other in the nighttime starscape. Little white dots glimmering in the dark dance all around you. You nervously wait for Jake to make a comment about your fetish. He scratches his chin, raising his eyebrow. “I mean, I do enjoy this sort of thing, but… I didn’t think you trusted me enough to allow me to puppet you.” 

“You’re right. I don’t,” you say, shrugging, trying to blow it off. “I’ve just got a hard-on for self-endangerment. Besides, there’s splinters of me out there that have less vulnerable setups, so even if my autoresponder betrays me and lets this one go haywire, I’ve still got 20+ 1UPs.”

“That’s fair! Although I swear on my honor, I am really not planning on hurting you! It’s very distressing to me if my partner doesn’t enjoy something.”

“If you don’t choose to ignore said distress,” you reply, but he ignores that.

“Anyway, come here,” he says, smiling and patting his thighs. “You picked the right man to explore this sort of thing with you! I’m very practiced at lulling others into sweet dreams.”

You don’t doubt that. You climb into his lap in a lotus blossom position— not to have sex, but to be held. He hugs you tight and warm around the waist, and you loop your arms around his shoulders, and press your face against his collarbone. He nuzzles you, adjusting you a little. He brushes his lips against the center of your ear, and begins to whisper.

Dear heart1  
 Nothing enraptures me more than  
The lines and curves  
 Of your relaxed form at midnight2  
To please you  
 Is the highest honor I could ask3  
To ordain you  
 With my thousand glowing crowns  
To make you glow  
 Like the moon through your window  
To make you hum  
 With life, like distant city ambience4  
I want to breathe  
 Words of intent across your chest  
Summer winds  
 On your body and whispers in your ear5  
Sweet nothings6  
 Means to an end7 Justified with  
A noble pursuit  
 In my endless chase of your body8  
Nothing pleases more  
 Than the indent of your skin I leave  
As I touch  
 And your voice singing for me9 I want  
To hear you beg  
 To breathe my name on every gasp10  
To gaze upon you  
 Is to hear the ringing of bells11  
To kiss you  
 Is like feeding on sweet grapes12  
As luxe as the  
 Soft white cream of your skin13  
And it would be  
 my pleasure to engorge on  
All the sugar stars  
 Gracing your shoulders and cheeks  
The candy floss  
 Of your perfect pale hair  
The soft cake  
 Of your delicate slender fingers14  
And your mind15  
 A dark taste on my simple palate  
Is a rare something  
 Rivaled only by your complex heart16  
A love I will savor  
 Drink the stories pumping through you17  
Let the scarlet  
 Drip down my chin like the best wine  
My skin stained  
 With all the colors that adorn you  
As an opening course  
 To the flavored life your bones have lived18  
I hunger for  
 The p-  
| 

You like his voice. It’s quick, confident, and a little nasally— but it only adds to that tender tenor tone he has. It’s hard to detach the timbre from the kooky words sometimes, but when he’s talking in language you don’t know it’s easier to simply _listen._

He’s clearly speaking Arabic, like you can hear the breathy notes from the back of his throat and the trilled ‘r’s that rattle right to your spine, but something gets twisted in your interpretation. Like your brain catches it after it penetrates your ear canal and translates the intent as opposed to the words. You know what he’s trying to get across to you, as opposed to what he’s actually saying. It’s probably for the best: you don’t think what he’s telling you would be as beautiful if it were transcribed with his strange way of speaking.

It’s all in rhyme, the concluding vowel the same on every line— sometimes long, sometimes short. He lingers on certain phrases, like those are the verses he thinks will resonate with you, like he’s singing you a love song. It doesn’t take you many stanzas to feel discomfort in your gut; all these poetic praises are bullshit.

You open your mouth to tell him so, but he splinters himself, so another hard-to-parse projection of him is holding you and simultaneously whispering in your other ear. In English this time. “No, no, shh, let me take the reigns,” he tells you. You are so woozy with hymns you cannot fight it, and you close your mouth without question. You chuckle to yourself— that you’ve got to be mind controlled into accepting complements.

He sounds so gorgeous. It is no struggle at all to fully let go. You are breathing in the words like you are drowning in a deep, deep sea.

Two projections of Jake, overlapping each other like spirits, rub your back and rock you. Your brain feels so gooey, lost in the prose, like it’s taken a vacation, like it’s soaking in a hot bath during harsh winter months. You hear “There we go, lay down flat for me,” murmured in your right, and with your command center busy on the left, your body follows his orders like a limp puppet.

The ghost on your left still stays impossibly close, hugging you, his lips never leaving your ear as you climb off Jake and lay flat against the stars. He spoons you on your left side, one hand pressed to your jawline, making sure you can hear every word. The other Jake straddles your hips, like he’s going to ride you.

“Arch your back, sweetheart,” he says, and you do. “Show me that heart of yours. You love this.”

You do love this. You feel so warm and safe. You don’t even look at him, you just make sure he can get at your chest. He dips down, you feel his warm breath between your pecs, and he licks you long and languidly along the seam of your sternum. His fingers dance along your skin, trying to find your heart.

No.  
  
---|---  
| 

Jake slams back into one person, the one straddling you, and topples backwards while yelling, “Oh, cripes! What the hell!?” When he calms himself enough to function, he jerks his head to the right, as though he’ll be able to see the invisible booming voice that just spoke. “You startled me! What do you mean, no?”

I’m saying it on behalf of Dirk.

Jake sighs, disappointed, before continuing the conversation in the detached, dreamy manner unique to this plane. He slides his hands over your body, massaging you as he speaks to your autoresponder.

Dirk loves what im doing to him??? Why are you saying No all grandiose and affirmative like?  
No shit he loves it, he's a subby little bitch and you told him to love it.  
I dont see the problem???  
Look, English. You and I both know what you’re planning on doing to him right now.  
And might I remind you that I am a benevolent overlord and designated an entire scene for that nonsense in *your* folder?  
So let’s keep our orange crayons in the orange box and our green crayons in the green box and not combine the two to make shit colored brown. Particularly when we’re already on uneasy footing with some of your... tastes. Capeesh?  
Still not clear on whats wrong here!  
Are you shitting me? This is why you're evil, dude.  
Just because you can force someone to like something they normally wouldn't doesn't mean it's suddenly okay to do.  
This is why you need to split apart from yourself, you know? Because you're a socially inept moron with no concept of what's appropriate when.  
You've never learned that using your imagination powers irresponsibly fucks with every single human on the planet.  
I know this is going in one ear and out the other, so let me get to the point:  
You're not gonna take Dirk's heart until I let you.  
*Rolls eyes while dejected but resigned*  
RP at me all you want, it's not gonna change anything.

Jake shuts his eyes, breathing deep, before splitting into two once again and continuing the poem.  
  
I'll kiss you  
 And whisper loving nonsense  
To get you to  
 Open19 I coat myself in perfumes  
So your body  
 Remembers the many nights before  
And parts, shivering  
 At a single touch of mine20  
Fingers wet  
 Warmth lashed to the knuckles  
Like ribbons  
 Thick, I tangle them inside  
And pluck at  
 The tight knot wound up within you21  
I want to hear  
 The music of your long ecstasy  
As I work you  
 To submission22 ‘Til you sing for me  
And beg for  
 What I want23 Desire in the sight  
Of a curved spine24  
 Holiness in presentation, a gift  
Greedily opened25  
 To enter you is to know divinity26  
The first breaths  
 We share together, are the best to observe27  
Your delicate neck28  
 Your shoulders rising like the tides29  
The hollow of your back30  
 The silk pillow between your teeth31  
Hair fanned over  
 White cloth, like honey on snow32  
I would steal  
 Every piece of you for my own  
If I could  
 But I will settle for momentary flashes  
Of a greater body  
 Of work33 I'll bring you quick to the edge  
With a single touch  
 Sweet and gentle between your legs34  
The end comes quickly  
 Feeling your motions and love35  
Satisfaction  
 Goes by your name, dear36

| 

The Jake whispering to your right lays down next to you, elbows propping him up so he can beam at you. “Go down on me,” he tells you. You crawl to him, overjoyed at the command to suck his dick. The other Jake follows your movements near perfectly, his mouth still at your ear. When you get down on your stomach between Jake’s legs, the other Jake lays heavy and warm on your back, his cadence unbreaking.

“Go deep,” says Jake. “All the way in, dear.”

You adore deepthroating, and it’s no trouble at all to relax your muscles and take him all the way down your throat. Your lips brush against his soft skin and hair. You swallow around him, because you know how good that feels for him. You start to back off, both to make him feel good with the bobbing motion and to get a breath in. 

Both Jakes stroke their fingers through your hair and push you back down to the base. “No,” says Jake. “Don’t move. Just do that lovely fluttering thing. You don’t need to breathe.”

And because this is a dream, you do not feel the need to fill your lungs. You wait, relaxed, surrounded by Jake, and swallow around him. He is shaking within short order— not surprising, as your muscles are contracting around the most sensitive part of his cock. He doesn’t tell you he’s coming, but he doesn’t need to. You feel him twitch, you feel his muscles shift against your tongue as he empties himself down your throat. His poetry stutters on a certain phrase, but other than that, orgasm arrives slick and neat.

He waits a moment, before removing his hands from your head. “Sit up, Dirk.” 

You pull yourself off him, the other Jake moving with you, and sit up on your knees. One Jake hugs you around the waist from behind, the other watches you with a smile. You take a long, staggering breath. 

“Come,” Jake tells you.

You are helpless to resist. Your dick, at a respectable half-hardness, grows fully erect. You watch yourself, detached, as your cock tenses and engorges, then pumps out stream after stream of white onto your thigh. Orgasm feels far away. You don’t even shake or pant or anything. You simply put on a show for Jake.  
  
The poem ends, and with it, the spell. Confusion at what your body and mind just went through wracks you. Your head lolls forward, your muscles shaking with aftershocks, your skin suddenly cold, your throat suddenly aching, and you clutch at it and rasp out, “Fuck. Jake. What’d you- Did you mean- Fuck, I-”

Thankfully, you don’t have to tell him what to do this time. You have the two of them sandwiching you in a hug within short order.  


[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)


	45. WHAT'S IT LIKE IN THE WORLD OF THE JINN?

It's literally the same as it is here, except everyone's way more hardcore about everything, everybody's made of shadow, there's flying cars, better fine dining, and Tupac is alive.  
So there's a jinn Rose, jinn Dave, and jinn Roxy floating around out there?  
Yeah, everybody but Rose.  
Hmm.  
She went grimdark and turned the sky inside out and got temporarily exiled to the mortal plane in lieu of jail time. Only for a couple hundred years or so.  
That seems disastrous. So why isn't she possessing the Rose I know and love?  
Your perception of what qareen do is skewed by what you're observing with Jake.  
His situation is an extreme outlier. What you are calling "self-possession" is, 99% of the time, only a temporary thing. And the vast majority of people are unable to get permanently in-tune with their other half.  
Mortals and jinn don't tend to jive. Think of you and me. Could you imagine being in the same body for more than a couple hours?  
God, I'd fucking jump off a cliff.  
And in comparison to other cases I've analyzed, we actually get along fairly well. Like we're not trying to fuckin' kill each other subconsciously. I believe it's because we both hyper analyze ourselves and can detect minute changes in our disposition.  
I can't believe I'm *not* trying to kill you subconsciously.  
It's less self-hate based and more akin to organ transplant rejection.  
Some people just fall over, piss themselves, and die when their doppelgänger influences them. Or lingers too long.  
I suspect if Rose attempted a merger, she wouldn't reject or notice her qareen as a separate presence. She'd feel inspired, then spend a couple fervent hours either writing a kickass poem or pulling off some Oceans 8-like bank robbery composed entirely of lesbian hotties.  
But it won't happen.  
Your Rose doesn't believe in this sort of scenario. She won't be "inspired" by her qareen unless it occurs to her as an absolute truth.  
Well, Jesus fuckin' Christ, don't tell her about it. She'll get with her qareen in a single SNOP just to wreck shit up, and we'll have Jake part 2 except worse.  
You're not broadcasting this conversation to her, right?  
Of course not. I'm no fool.  
I'm not giving her any leverage to even THINK about believing in this stuff.  
Whew.  
Speaking of which, I'm a little murky on this "belief" concept.  
I can't say my atheism isn't shattered by this whole mess. It'd be idiotic not to be agnostic after seeing all this.  
But I still don't believe in this Pre-Islamic folkloric religion. Like I'm pretty sure a bunch of primal goddesses don't rule the planarsphere. I don't even believe in other types of jinn.  
So how are you here? If there's one thing I've learned, belief makes all this possible. But I only believe in a fraction of it. Particularly, the AI-based fraction I crafted myself.  
Theoretical physics.  
What?  
I'm here because of theoretical physics.  
What.  
Yeah, like, quantum mechanics? You want me to give you a lesson?  
Sure?  
I mean, I'm not a bullshit fake physicist, I'm a *real* scientist, so I have no idea what you're talking about.  
Great. I'll rap it for you.  
Fucking. Why.

Self deprecation's got you in a bind  
You lack faith in the power of your conscious mind  
There's a lot we don't know out there in space  
But your individual existence changes the fabric of the place  
Even if you're a pointy-lensed freak who's hair is too waxy  
Your sentience is inherent to working of the galaxy  
See, molecules aren't all static and equations  
By observing these particles, we give 'em vibrations  
Consciously looking at something changes the nature of the wave  
Like Weizmann scientists proved in 1998  
And that founds the question of what humans can do  
And what plane we exist on, me and you

(Pause for sick beatboxing)

The third dimension is where we reside  
So we can't view the fourth, known succinctly as "time"  
If a two dimensional critter was lookin' up on a 3D vision  
They couldn't see the cube, just a square. There's a lot they'd be missin'  
Relate that to us now, on the 4D scale  
Our perspective of the D-above is certainly curtailed  
So in "time," all we see is one second, the present, just a slice  
(Pause for an appropriate amount of beats)  
And that's nice.

(Wait for the hook)

Now let's get into theoretical physics  
Which is kind of bullshit and a little mystic  
Let's pretend you reside on the fourth dimension  
Which means you've got total perception  
Of everything that's ever going to happen to you, all at once  
Which includes that time in high school when you were a total dunce  
But like how you can only see a second of time in the 3D plane  
Your fourth dimensional self is one slice of the grander arcane  
If you exist on the fifth dimension, then that proves the multiverse  
Every fate and path and time you could possibly traverse  
Combined into one mixed up Dirk stew  
To create the omnipresent and god-like you  
So let's break down what we've learned:

(Beatbox solo)  
(More beatbox solo)  
(Some beatboxing solos with record scratch sound effects worked in)

We know for a fact that your individual existence is important  
Changing the nature of particles and sowing universal concordance  
And the theoretical part is unproven, but lets say its true  
That you're a tiny 3D splinter of the grand power of you  
And while the Nega Dirk on the Fifth Dimension sounds like a sweet metal band  
In reality he's puppeteering with his godly hand  
Which is how you could summon an angel or a demon or a jinn or other weird folks  
It's self-love and self-hate and solo practical jokes  
All religions are real and none are real, whatever's less lame  
What's it matter when you can change atoms with your brain?  
Let me get in on this professorial rap lecture  
Is reality a result of a grandiose self-fracture?  
Self-splinter or a piece of a bigger whole, however you perceive it  
Everybody's their own god. Like Naruto, believe it  
I'm a part of you too, but exist slightly adjacent  
I'm a physics bending pro, but you're just nascent  
Me and you? We can change whatever we need  
All that's required is faith the size of a mustard seed  
Faith in myself? Fuck off, that shit's trite  
I'm not great at pretending I can win a battle I can barely fight  
I’m here to help, you egregious ass  
And provide you the confidence that you sorely lack  
Your own faith in yourself is simply pathetic  
Seems you need a boot camp, and together we can sex it

What.  
Is that it?  
... You're not really going to end it with that nonsensical half-rhyme, are you?

[Back to the README](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033278)  



	46. BATHE HIM AND BRING HIM TO ME

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _decadence, body worship (consists of a lot of licking/kissing), cock rings, rimming, facials_
> 
> _the border is distorted in safari due to some bugs on their end, sorry about that._   
>  _and turn your phone wideways :)_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - DIRK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)

You lounge in a large, square bath, the smooth edges comfortably curved in order to support your shoulders. The bath is carved into the marble floor like a pool, and appears to be a part of a larger, semi-outdoor bathing complex. Basically all this place has for shelter is a fancy, patterned tile roof over your head and colorful columns marking the perimeter. Huge, multi-layered, semi-transparent curtains in blues and greens and yellows hang from the ceiling, flitting in the breeze, masking whatever environment lies outside. Sunny blue light pervades the space. The air smells of cool, early-summer mornings.

The cozy, thick water is a gorgeous foggy white. Handfuls of pink and red flower petals float delicately along the surface. When you shift or move your body, you can see the opaque water swirl in sparkling spiral clouds.

You think you're bathing in milk and infused water. It smells nice, like fresh cream and lavender and roses and sweets. Feels good too, it's like somebody's rubbed warm shea butter all over you and massaged it into all your knots. You lick it off your fingers-- tastes like honey. Cleopatra, eat your heart out.

Is this really a fantasy of yours? You’ve never thought up anything remotely close to this type of scene. Not that you’re complaining about this choice pampering, but you’re not sure where the sex is supposed to fit, nor do you know what to discuss with Jake in this one. Fucking in milk and honey doesn’t sound too pleasant.

"Do we have to have sex?" you sigh, sinking further into the marble tub. "This is the best bath of my life."

Jake’s chilling behind you, apparently. He giggles, you feel his hand gently ruffle your hair. "I'm happy just watching. Although if you get a bit randy, who says we just have to sit here and stick to one activity? You can make the story last as long as you'd like."

You twist around and rest your elbows on the edge of the pool. Jake’s laying on his side, on a soft, plushy blue mat. He smiles at you, wiggling as close as he can to the rim of the bath without getting his clothes wet. He has on a black kaftan-- long sleeved and summery, the pattern on it splayed in radiant stripes and swirls of gray and white. It hangs on him like starlight. Beneath the open robe is a black shirt and sash and pants, all airy and loose.

You trace your mostly-dry finger down the soft hem of his sleeve. "Black isn't your color."

"Then what is?"

"Green. To match your eyes," you say, feeling mushy from the warm waters. "I'm a sentimental fuck."

He winks and makes a kissy face. “But I’m going to put _you_ in green!”

“Huh?”

“I’m supposed to deck you out in gold necklaces and bracelets and whatnot, right?” he asks, innocently. “That’s what ‘decadence’ is!”

You feel your cheeks heat. You suddenly understand everything. You know why you’re in the bath. You know what buttons of yours this is supposed to push. You know where the sex is supposed to come in, now. You swivel around and smack your hands over your face and sink lower into the water. You’d dive completely under, but you don’t want to get your hair wet.

Jake laughs, confused, and pokes you in the back of the head. “Why are you so shy about a jewelry fetish? There’s nothing embarrassing about admiring yourself in fine haberdasheries!”

“It’s not a- It’s not. Fuck.” You might as well man up and tell him. You don’t want him digging around in your head to try and find the answer. You take a deep breath and straighten up, but you don’t twist back around. You stare angrily at the sweet, milky water. “It’s not about what I look like. It’s about the fantasy that someone would think I’m worthy of lavishing fancy shit upon, despite me being absolutely undeserving of luxurious gifts, and also in spite of any objections I may have.”

He pokes your head again. “You are plenty worthy of luxurious gifts!”

“Thanks for playing into my fantasy, bro,” you say, laying back against the edge. “Really sets the mood.”

Jake sighs, frustrated. You take a deep breath, and try to get re-relaxed. You can do this. It’s your fantasy, after all. You think you’ll be able to roll with it; if it were real life you’d feel extremely uncomfortable with someone going all out for you, but in imagination land where money doesn’t exist and Jake acts as some Christian Grey sexy indulgent rich dude archetype? Yeah, fuck it. Why not. You can RP. You can play pretend.

You shut your eyes and lean back and soak. Jake plays with your hair as you zone out, making sure to stroke in the correct direction so as to not fuck up your sweet coif. The tips of his fingers send pleasant shivers down your spine, whenever he brushes over your scalp. His petting and massaging makes you feel cared for. The rhythm of how he cards through your hair helps you truly lose yourself. Your body becomes weightless in the surrounding warmth. You shut your eyes. Smell the cream and roses. Listen to the calm breeze. You let yourself drift, for a while.

Eventually, you hear fabric shift. Jake is rolling his sleeves up. His chest presses up against the back of your head. His fingers dip beneath the surface of the milk, to the knuckles. He presses his hands against you, cupping your front and copping a feel, then drags them down to touch your ribs. He's gentle. Bit ticklish.

You laugh, lightly. "Getting impatient?"

"I can't help myself," he whispers, and presses his lips to your hair. You feel him breathe in, reverently. He leans over you, to peer at you upside down. He looks a little surprised, in a happy way. "Oh, Strider, have I told you how lovely your smile is yet?"

Your mouth snaps back to a flat line, and Jake sighs tragically. He pats your chest, to encourage you to sit up further. He presses his cheek to yours when he’s got enough room.

"Let's get you all dried off," he says, gently.

"I'll be sticky from the honey," you murmur, nuzzling him, coaxing his head to turn towards you.

"Not at all. It's a dream," he whispers, tilting his chin as though to kiss you. Instead of leaning in to satisfy you, he waits, a smile on his lips that you feel with your own. You feel a ripple in the water, and he leans back in order to rest his wet fingertips against your lips. You don't need to be asked twice.

You lick the honey and cream from his fingers, one at a time. You make a big show of it, drawing your tongue up the length of every one of his digits, letting the white drip down your chin, kissing his palm, making eye contact for the entirety of it. Jake gets a little flustered towards the end, skin flushing dark, biting his lip. It’s cute.

He helps you out of the bath, taking both your hands in his and helping you stand on the slippery marble. He has you hoist yourself up and sit on the smooth edge of the pool, your legs still dangling in the warm water. Apparently, you’re going to air dry.

He sits behind you, a few inches back so he doesn’t get his clothes wet. You twist your head and watch him dig through his pockets for something. “While we wait, why don’t we get the ball rolling with something basic?” he says.

He pulls out a big gold hoop earring. Delicate glimmering strings are threaded towards the center like sunbeams, a large oval emerald suspended and knit into the converging point. It glimmers in the soft blue light, pretty as anything. You don’t have your ears pierced, but whatever. Maybe it’s a clip on.

He gently taps his fingers to the edge of your jaw, so you turn towards him. You get your legs out of the bath in order to face him properly. He carefully slides the earring into a hole on your earlobe that has definitely never been there before. 

"What the fuck," you say, although you don't make any motion to stop him. The earring hangs heavy, and you feel him push the back of it on. "When'd you pierce my ears?"

"You look lovely," he says, not answering the question. He takes the matching earring from his pocket, slides it on your other ear, then fastens it. "And that's not all I pierced."

"Dick or nipples," you ask, dryly, as he reaches into his pocket to grab the next piece of jewelry. He spreads it out between his hands. A golden, delicate chain attached to two small hoops.

Nipples, then. You feel your cock twitch.

It doesn't hurt when he puts them in, unfortunately. Your chest has never been particularly sensitive. Still, it's fun to watch the gold slide inside you, watch your nipples stiffen around them.

When he's got both in, he gives the chain a slight tug, and the heat that builds in your chest goes straight to your groin. You whimper, pathetically, as you're forced to follow his pull. He giggles.

"I'm sorry love, the chain is too delicate to do much more of that. It's just decorative," he says, patting your chest. "I'm doing this type of thing to you in another scene though, so don't fret!"

You only have a vague idea of what's going on with your other selves. It's like a gut-feeling as opposed to actually peeping in on them. He's not lying; you're pretty sure he's doing this but with... clothespins.

Jake initiates another slight tug, which forces you forward, into his arms. He wraps you up in a brief hug, then tugs your knees out from under you to cradle you bridal style. Impressively, he's able to stand up like that and carry you without any apparent effort. Then you remember: oh yeah, this is a reverse-power fantasy. Of course he can carry you.

You like being carried. You enjoy being prey to the whims of a dude stronger than you, even if said whims aren't sexual. You're a guy of average height and average weight and average physical ability, so you're feeling pretty dang fluttery at the rare sensation. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and sigh against him like a schoolgirl ass-deep in crush, as he takes you to an area further back, masked behind flowing blue and green curtains.

He steps between them, the soft fabric brushing your bare skin, to reveal a comfortable looking hideaway. There’s a bunch of pillows, one of those cushy futon-mattresses, a very short chest of drawers, and a large rectangular mirror set low in order to gaze into it if you’re sitting on the ground. The colorful curtains breeze around it in shades of beautiful blues.

He sets you down gently onto the mattress, near the chest of drawers, then moves to adjust the mirror so it’s angled towards you. You wonder if you’re going to get fucked while looking in the mirror. You’re not sure if the concept is infuriating or arousing. Both? Both. 

When he gets it angled right, you’re surprised by how well the emerald earrings frame your face. You scramble into a prettier sitting position, narcissisticly posing yourself. You shake your head back and forth-- you like the way they gently tap against your neck. It's an ever-present reminder that you've been trussed up by someone.

He grins at you, looking almost as excited as you feel, then moves to kneel down behind you. Through the mirror, you see him stare at the nape of your neck with lowered lashes. You watch him pluck your hand up, then press his lips gently up your forearm, then the crook of your elbow, your shoulder, your back and neck and cheek and temple. You don't turn your head towards him. You like to watch him kiss you.

He slides open the chest of drawers and pulls out a _massive_ choker. It's the kind of choker best pictured on an aristocratic, filthy rich, middle aged, gold-digging widow who had six husbands and killed four of them and really likes mink coats tossed over low cut slinky dresses. It’s far too gorgeous for your pallid, freckled self. 

He puts it on you anyway. Egg sized emeralds centered in spider web-like gold frames encapsulate your neck completely. Each square panel features one of the large gems, matching how your earrings look. You feel the metal press against your Adam’s apple when you swallow. The bottom edge of the choker has many draping, delicate chains looping down and across your collarbone and chest and shoulders, giving the impression that you are literally dripping in gold. It takes him a while to fasten it completely, as he has to link a couple chains together behind your shoulderblades.

“Nice,” you say, trying to be sarcastic. It doesn’t come out that way. You watch your cheeks get pink. This thing would be worth a couple million in real life.

He nuzzles your face with his, as a silent reply, then digs in the drawers for the next item. Thin gold bracelets, which go on less elegantly. There’s about fifty fragile bangles that get slid on each wrist, forming a near-solid cuff up to the middle of your forearm. They jingle pleasantly whenever you move.

Jake seems taken with your look. He moves around to your front, staring at you like you’re a work of art. He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles, one at a time, then brushes his lips against your palm. He kisses up the sensitive skin on the inside of your arm, which you consider a very sweet gesture-- until he gets all the way up and just fuckin’ shoves his face in your armpit. And you know that you're impossibly clean and you smell like roses and your hair probably feels like silk or whatever, but it's still pretty damn weird.

"Don't you have any shame, dude?" you ask him.

"I don't know the meaning of the word," he says, then licks you there. You jolt with ticklishness, slapping a hand over your mouth to try and clamp down on the laughter. It doesn't help much.

He backs off, reaching around you to grab the next piece. You expect him to put anklets on you or something, but instead he brings out some very large gold rings, almost large enough to be crowns. Thick bands of intricately engraved gold with embedded emeralds glimmer in the morning sun. You realize they're for your thighs— fancy gold garters to make your legs look pretty.

He has you spread your legs out and lift ‘em up one at a time. The circlets clamp open and shut like a bracelet, and he puts them on as high up as they can go, nearly to the joint at your hip. They fit well. It’s a little uncomfortable if you’re flat on your ass but other than that, yeah, it’s a nice acsexsory. 

Jake flops down to lay on his side in front of you, so you can gaze over him and look at yourself in the mirror. He breathes heavy, chewing on his lip. “Pose for me?”

You aim to please. You sit up on your knees, tucking your feet under your butt since most of the action is on your torso, and spread your thighs apart so he can get a clear look at how hard you're getting. You arch your back a little and drop your shoulders, try to make the lines of your body more elegant.

Jake looks you up and down, eyes clouded over with lust. "Don't move yet..."

He rolls onto his stomach, between your legs, and takes your dick into his mouth with no buildup. You are fully erect instantaneously. His warm mouth, lips tight on your shaft as he bobs up and down on you, causes waves of lighting arousal to roll up your hips. Your head almost lolls back with pleasure before you remember that he told you not to move. 

If you stay posed like this, you can look at yourself in the mirror while you get your dick sucked. Feels a touch narcissistic, but hey, you've long since vaulted over the shame goal and scored a touchdown in sin. You're gonna look at yourself as much as you damn well please. You watch your body subtly gyrate, trying to match his rhythm. You note that the chains on your choker match the chain between your nipples. Nice touch.

He pulls away, far too soon, and you feel something cold and metallic lock itself around your dick. You jerk with surprise. A thick gold band, undecorated, is wrapped flush around the base of your cock. It’s not tight enough to hurt or make you numb, but it constricts blood flow a little. You like cock rings, they make your dick look all plump and happy.

Jake shuffles back, obscuring the mirror so he can look at you fully. “Oh, that’s just lovely. You’re a _picture.”_

You’re very pleased with yourself before you remember that you’re supposed to have like, some sort of goal with this whole thing. Gotta convince Jake to split from his jinn, right, yeah.

“Can I ask what you’re getting out of this?” you ask, trying to figure out what to talk about. Holy shit, your dick is _throbbing_ in the gold ring. You bite your lip and force yourself to focus. “Like, are you getting off on the presentation of my body, or dressing me up like a doll?”

Jake pantomimes that he wants you to lie back onto the soft mattress. You do so, and he scoots between your legs and kneels there before answering.

“Well, there’s a little bit of that,” he says, humming. He gets his hand underneath one of your jeweled thighs. “But maybe I simply like you! Did it occur to you that I just want you to feel good?”

“I guess it didn’t,” you say, a bit confused. He lifts your leg all the way up so your foot is resting on his shoulder. He grips your ankle in his hand. “I mean, you really- Ah- haha-”

You dissolve into completely involuntary laughter when Jake licks the arch of your foot. You nearly kick him in the face when he does it again, clutching at your diaphragm with very uncool giggles. Jake takes mercy on you, grinning like he just won a prize. “I really do like you! And your lovely laughter is an adorable bonus!”

He lifts your other leg up to rest on his opposite shoulder. You expect him to fuck you like that, but instead he scoots as close as possible and lifts you _higher,_ so your thighs are around his head and you’re at a near vertical angle. All your weight is on your head, neck, and shoulders, and you’ve got a front row view to how much precome is dribbling out of your choked cock.

You feel Jake’s mouth on your balls, gettin’ friendly with ‘em, warmth oozing through your core from his soft lips sucking on you. He doesn’t spend too much time there. He hefts you a little higher, and you feel his hot breath on your sensitive rim. You shiver, and not from ticklishness this time.

You feel his tongue brush against you, teasing you, and you dig your fingers into the cloth beneath you. He starts slow at first, lazy strokes, making sure to hit every nerve of yours. You are awash in the whole sensation, the position you’re in… You very much enjoy the gold cock ring and the feel of the jewelry on your bare skin-- getting your ass eaten seems so much more distinguished when you're covered in riches. You wish you could see the mirror from here.

That thought bothers you. "Hey, do you think I'm a narcissist?"

"Strider, my face is in your butthole," he says, muffled. "Really not the time."

"Going by the hierarchy of consensual self-cest, you're far more narcissistic than I am. At least I don't want to-" Your hips jolt and your voice stutters as his tongue enters you. "-ah- fuck- Jake..."

He alternates between flat strokes and straight up tongue-fucking you. He’ll occasionally draw circles around you. The whole thing is a massive wave of sensation and warmth, the rhythm of stimulation never stopping.

"Fucking-" you stammer out. You curse yourself inwardly for not splitting into your weird extra-planar fifth dimensional self to scold him— you don’t want to split your consciousness and drift away from this scene. But somebody's gotta call him out. You struggle through the sensation to talk. "I- god, maybe you're not a narcis- ah- sist. Maybe you're- you're just selfish. Really selfish."

He continues licking you, making no indication he heard you. You bite your lip and clutch at the pillows as he works his magic. Your cock throbs, precome pumping out from the tip. God, your dick looks good. Getting that reddish over-aroused, edged color, veins accentuated by the gold around the shaft. Despite the static and heat and tension building up in you, you refrain from jerking off. These callouts don't make themselves.

"Making everything about _you,_ your pleasure, your comfort," you continue. You feel heat well up in your body, apparently ready to orgasm just from _rimming._ He wraps his hand around your dick, to shut you up. "Jake-!"

You close your eyes, and you feel your muscles tense, then Jake's hand on your dick. He doesn't stroke you, just angles you, and you're too far gone to complain. You at least have the wherewithal to pull back your bangs before coming all over your own face. Orgasm flows through your body, and you whine and shiver as you feel semen spatter and drip against your cheeks. It takes longer than usual to pump it all out, as the gold ring is bottlenecking your muscle spasms. 

Jake slowly lowers your legs, wraps them around his waist, and peers over you. You're panting. Warm white drips delicately down your jawline. 

Without breaking eye contact, he brushes his hand against one side of your jaw, saving it all like a runny ice cream cone. He licks his fingers clean of you, green eyes boring into your own, a devilish smile at the corners of his mouth.

"You're right on the money with that one. I'm damn sure the reason I muck everything up is due to my own self-absorbed habits," he says, nonchalantly. "But I don't want to change. I like getting what I want without having to think about it. And what I want right now is to use that hole I so carefully prepped."

The desire to get fucked in jewels overrides the desire to continue the discussion, and you wordlessly roll over onto your stomach and spread your legs. You make sure to angle yourself towards the mirror. You watch yourself through the glass, as Jake shifts his robes around to get his cock out, then straddles your hips to mount you.

You note there's still some come on your face, so you swipe it onto your hand and go to town. You taste, unrealistically, like honey. Man, what the hell is your dream self's diet, this shit tastes excellent. 

Watching yourself indulge and sucking your fingers clean of come is... uh... pretty hot. You continue to admire yourself as Jake enters you and carelessly fucks your ass into the floor. Admittedly, you really didn't help Jake out at all this time around. Maybe a scene that indulged your apparent narcissism wasn't the best way to teach your friend a lesson. 

But hey, at least you're having fun.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)


	47. DON'T JUDGE A MAN UNTIL YOU'VE WALKED TWO MOONS IN HIS MOCCASINS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“bodyswap,” drowning, underwater sex, extreme asphyxiation/choking, adrenaline junkie sex_
> 
> _special note: while not containing any violence or blood, this chapter is very dark and you should not read it if you are sensitive to morbidity and death/dying._
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - AR](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776)

You sit in Dirk's bathtub, across from him, your furry legs kicked up over his. He reclines against the edge like it is his throne, his freckled arms sprawled over white plastic that nearly camouflages his skin. The tap is turned off but the tub is overflowing; whenever you shift or splash about, little waves roll off the sides, and the water level does not decrease. 

You wave your hands around beneath the warm water. You're dirtying the tub with your presence. All the ash and filth in your soul seeps into the water like ink from a squid. Dirk doesn't exhibit the same behavior. In fact, it appears as though his existence is actually filtering the water, your strange aura wisping around his transparent space bubble in little tufts of black.

It is pleasantly, deeply quiet. There is no ambient hum of the AC unit nor the modern gizmos Dirk stashed in his walls. You love the quiet, but you've got to shatter it for the sake of clarification.

You scratch your head, for show. "I don't understand what bodyswap means? Nothing is different!"

Dirk’s face is as flat as ever, but his red eyes glint like rubies. "You'll catch on."

Black water cascades over the basin when you fold your arms and rest your head seductively and playfully against the edge. "What would you like then?"

"Drown me," he says, calmly.

It’s an odd request. Not that you mind the request _itself…_ in fact, you find that sort of mortal nonsense quite fascinating and are more than happy to comply! It’s just that, thus far, Dirk has seemed abnormally death-adverse.

You raise yourself back up to a sitting position, suspicious. "You were afraid of that notion earlier this week when I ravished you in the shower! Why do you want it now?"

"I can't die or get hurt in the dream," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. You miss the delightful golden color they had before. The red is a tad bit creepy. "Besides, you know how much of a masochist I am. I love forced asphyxiation. Choke me, daddy."

You frown. "... Where's Dirk?"

"How do you know I'm not Dirk?" 

"The verbiage gives it away," you say, which is a half-truth. The AI simply carries himself more confidently, and also phrases things dryer and prouder. Whenever Dirk spits those self-mocking quips, he takes on a tone that implies he’s masking self hatred behind hackneyed ironies. "Don't you think it's rude that you're using his vessel for sexual pleasure?"

“No,” he says, and his mouth twitches. It's often the closest thing to a smile you get on Dirk's face. “I’ve cleared it with him. He's watching.”

He glides through the water to come straddle your lap, and you rest your hands on his waist. You do like his body. It's so soft and gentle... the man hasn't seen a day of hard labor in his life. You can't wait to see what his bones look like.

The water around your hips clears with his presence. You rub little circles with your thumbs against his pelvic bones, to peer through the bathwater and watch his dick start to stand at attention. You wonder if the AI wants to spirit Dirk away in order to make love with you all on his lonesome.

“Hey, do you like me?” you ask him.

“I like you in the way I like reality television, like those My Strange Addiction types of shows,” he tells you, resting his delicate hands against your shoulders. “In the way that you’re a fascinating trainwreck.”

That stings a bit. You keep staring at his pelvic girdle. “I don’t watch much TV. You do really want to do this with me, right?”

"C'mon," he says, smarmy. _"La petite mort_ never hurt anyone." 

He misinterpreted the intent of your question, but the pun was funny. You laugh, then reach up, brushing your fingers along where his thyroid gland should be, then the cartilage around his larynx, and you get a good grip on the sternocleidomastoid before pushing gently against his skin.

He follows your push, easing back at your guidance, until his head dips beneath the water’s surface. He’s able to lay down flat in Dirk’s long tub, and you adjust so you are straddling him, still keeping a firm grip around his jugular. You lean over the water, as though you are peering down into a window. He doesn’t look panicked at the lack of air quite yet. Quite the opposite. He shuts his sweet lashes, delicate as down feathers. His pretty flaxen hair floats around him like a halo.

You count to seventeen, slow. He looks like an angel, like he’s sleeping. You feel him get erect between your legs— you suspect he likes the tension, the buildup to the point of true strangulation. You press your other hand against his shoulder, prepared to keep him down.

His eyes snap open all of a sudden, and you feel his adductors spasm. His mouth gapes, like he’s going to vomit, and large bubbles glob upwards as he loses the rest of his air. He sloppily scrambles at your wrist, the one holding his neck down, but you stay steady. You figure this is all a natural human reaction, like your knee getting tapped with a little hammer. You’ve seen it before. He's still quite hard, so you don't worry too much about it.

You love how quiet it is. The only noise comes from the small waves, lapping over the tub onto the tile. You clamp your legs tighter so the AI has less room to thrash, and the splashing sounds are drastically cut when you limit said throes. There’s no more bubbles coming out of his mouth, and his eyes are wide and panicked, but he cannot drift into unconsciousness. It’s what he wanted, right? 

Actually, now that you’re dwelling on it, you _do_ get quite intense without realizing it sometimes. You want him to have fun! It's not like you're in the thick of it; you can stop and pose an inquiry.

You pull back and raise yourself up on your knees, removing all your weight from him, and the AI sits up in a rush. He coughs and hacks once air is available to him, water pouring out of his lungs and down his chin.

"Hooo boy, okay, vision's coming back. That was a fuckin' shot of adrenaline, shit, I love mortal bodies," wheezes the AI, water still sputtering down his chin. He slicks back his hair, and stares at you with what you believe is an irritated glare. "Why'd you stop."

You smile, annoyed that he's passively berating you. "I wanted to make sure you were enjoying the experience!"

He raises an eyebrow. “’Course I am. You should know. We’re the same species, death’s a fuckin’ novelty. You can fuck me when I’m down there too, if you want.”

“Willing and ready!” you say, still smiling. Although you crumple your face into a pouty frown immediately after. "But I wish I was making _Dirk_ feel good. Not you."

"Dirk couldn't handle that," he says. "His perspective is different than ours. That moment of near-death would leave him scarred for-fucking-ever."

"It's not that different, is it?" you say, confused. "None of my loves have been frightened at the moment of death."

"There's... a lot wrong with what you just said," says the AI, flatly. “But I’m too horny to discuss it. Back down we go.”

He takes a deep breath before falling backwards into the water once more. He raises up his rear, and you get behind his legs in order to assume the position. The erection you have from watching his body twist around is firm enough to enter him, and you do so as soon as you’re able. You will him to be slick and ready for you, and you slide into him with a satisfying push. Once your dick is all warm and cozy, you lean over the water and press one hand into his neck, and the other into his shoulder.

The AI’s eyes are shut again, like he’s meditating. You fuck into him quite gently at first, not wanting to cause waves and disturb the quiet. You’re so absorbed in the subtle, building heat in your groin and this beautiful body laid out before you that you don’t quite notice the voice in the back of your head.

The AI slits opens his eyes, watching you, judging you with pure red.

| 

Ok, I can't take it anymore.  
There's only so many times I can watch myself drown. My limit is at about one, actually.  
And there's only so much Gothic Attitude™ I can handle.  
"You can't wait to see what his bones look like." Jesus fucking Christ, Jake.  
  
  
---|---  
  
"Are you," you say aloud, startled. "Are you in my head? Like really in my head?"  
  
You don’t want him in your noggin. You don’t want him here at all. Viewing your memories was nearly unbearable, but actively reading your thoughts? Oh, no, he’s probably reading your thoughts right now!

This is an unbelievable breach of privacy. All the anger goes right to your hips, causing heat to pour through your veins.

| 

Yeah, I've basically been in some Osmosis Jones-esque viewing center this whole time.  
How are you not affected by drowning me?  
This is sick. Like really, actually fuckin' sick.  
Does immortality really throw your sympathy off that much?  
  
"Stop hounding me!" you yell, and your voice echoes in the quiet bathroom. You press on Dirk's neck tighter, and watch a stream of thick bubbles force themselves from his open mouth. "Your loud mouthed AI is the same as me, why are you exclusively hounding me about it!?"  
  
You fuck into Dirk, frustrated. He starts to struggle, but he cannot throw off your weight. You feel his legs kick around your waist as his human body tries to gain purchase. You watch him try to gasp and swallow in water and you _do_ get a sick sort of pleasure from that. Serves him right for listening in on your thoughts and berating you for NOTHING!

Dirk’s cock is nearly purple with arousal, he’s quick on the draw with this scene. You know the heat in you is from anger, passionate irritation from Dirk’s eavesdropping nonsense as opposed to actual pleasure. You let go of his shoulder to wrap a fist around his dick, and fiercely jerk him off beneath the water. The AI clenches his teeth as he comes, body wracked with a thousand types of pleasure.

| 

Don't get me wrong, the fact he's the literal reverse of the femme fatale in GoldenEye is more than a little concerning. But.  
At least my autoresponder grasps "death is serious business" from an intellectual level. That's really the best I could hope for from a non-empathic immortal.  
On the other hand, you're straight up ignoring the fear of death present in all mortal things.  
You should have learned that by now.  
In fact, you *must* have learned that by now.  
You're... and, fuck, I hate that I'm complimenting you right now, but if the shoe was on the other foot I know that complements would destroy *me*...  
Anyway, I want to say that,  
You're so very smart, Jake.  
  
You freeze. “What?”  
  
Dirk opens his eyes, unclouded by death or adrenaline, and takes a deep, watery breath. He is calm, and you figure he's decided to take the water in like air. He doesn't want his goose cooked any longer, once he blew his load.

He wiggles off you, twists, and pushes you back so you sit against the edge of the tub. He swims through the water to lay between your spread legs, and presses his lips to the shaft of your cock. It feels good, underwater, but you can’t focus on the sensation with his voice swarming through your head.

You don’t know how to feel. You should be fine, right? This should flow off you, this shouldn’t phase you. But you feel something deep inside you, an ache that you get once in a blue moon. A feeling that you try desperately to ignore; that things aren’t quite right. That you’ve made a horrible mistake. You can’t seem to push it down with Dirk yammering on and on.

| 

Just from these minutes in your POV, I can tell.  
You've got an insane amount of anatomy based know-how. Your vocabulary is alarmingly large, you know a billion languages, the imagery that flows through your brain when you look at shit is simply beautiful.  
You can read my deadpan body language and tone in a way that's frankly astounding, and you're not even cheating and reading my soul to do it. I didn't know you could do that.  
You let people --myself-- think you're an absolute moron too, so that I won't criticize the things you do due to my perceptions.  
Which is so very smart, Jake.  
  
He wraps his mouth fully around your cock. Something tight wells behind your eyes.

"I- I don't want to do this any more," you say, choked up. You tug on Dirk's soft, floaty hair. "Dirk, stop, I don't want it..."

He pulls away from you, slowly, and sits up in the tub. He does not need to cough or wheeze this time, he merely slicks his bangs back, so he can give you a hard stare with ruby red eyes.

You start to cry, under his gaze. You start to sob, and you don’t dare stop to analyze why. You’re sure you’ll break into two if you do.

| 

But I know now.  
You are not so stupid as to let the burdens of mortality go unlearned for a thousand years.  
You are simply selfish. And you construe your density into a weapon. Instead of risking an ethical breakdown, you cover your ears and hum and pretend you never listened in the first place.  
You cannot suppress this any longer, Jake. Your soul is as rotten as it can be.  
You have to start to care again, to truly care about what you do, and understand the pain you cause.  
You have to let go of immortality.  
  
You feel Dirk’s hand on your shoulder, brushing your skin with his thumb. A small comforting gesture.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776)


	48. TURNABOUT IS FAIR PLAY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _xeno, puppetry, sexsomnia, somnophilia, sex while afraid, fear tears/fear boners, and seizures/sleep paralysis/blah blah you know the drill_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS -- AR](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776)

It’s a mirror image of how you were two nights ago.

In your dark bedroom, you straddle a naked, sleeping Jake. You can see him in the glow of pale city light. Jake’s utterly relaxed, his eyelids fluttering in REM, his breathing slow. You lower yourself, to softly kiss his parted lips. Unlike Jake’s fire, the heat that pools from your mouth is a more normal orange-yellow. It flickers against his skin like firefly light.

You kiss his neck, the weak part of his throat. Then his chest. You hesitate while listening to his blood pump. You pour harmless fire over his torso and call out to his sleeping form.

I can feel your heart pounding.  
Are you frightened?  
I cant say im not a bit nervous.  
How so?  
I dont know what youre going to do to me.  
Not that im asking you to stop of course.  
Its rather invigorating! I dont know whats going to happen next.  
Its not a sensation im used to. I thought ive exhumed every sexual adventure imaginable and there were no more surprises for me.  
I suppose i didnt foresee doing a bit of the old in and out with someone like me.  
I havent made love to other djinn in...  
Golly...  
A thousand years?

| 

You kiss lower, leaving a trail of light down his stomach, then his pelvis, until you are fully nestled between his legs. His dick is half-hard, no doubt from the good dreams he’s having, and you take it fully into your mouth.

Jake’s breath stutters, and his hips thrust up into you of their own accord. You angle yourself so he can go as deep as he can. Stilted and arrhythmic and completely subconsciously, Jake sleep-fucks your mouth. You let him go at his own pace. You like how his cock feels, getting hard while cushioned by the plasma-like fire oozing from your tongue. You let some trickle down, and work him open using it and your fingers. You play with his ass while you deepthroat him. You think you’d like to fuck him.

You sense his eyes opening, like he just entered the room.  
  
---|---  
  
Do you miss that?  
Operating with someone on your level.  
There was never anyone on my level...  
Wow. Self-aggrandizing much?  
No not like that! I meant the reverse!  
I talked too big a game... And a lot of tasks that were simple for my friends or family to do were too hard for me to accomplish...  
Which did a number on the ol self confidence.  
So instead of learning how to cope or challenge or explain yourself, you saw an opportunity and fled. Possessed your human half so you could play games with weaker mortals.  
You chose to be a big fish in a small pond.  
Hey! Thats not QUITE right and youre also selling me short!  
Did you ever once think about what it feels like to be on the receiving end?  
When your human lovers have those moments of clarity, when they stumble across the dark side of you?  
When they come across

| 

His hips stop thrusting, once he’s conscious. He’s paralyzed while half-awake, just like what he did to you a few nights back. You slowly pull yourself off him, then crawl over him to stare him down.

His green eyes are active, in the low light. His face is relaxed, but he’s scanning you in a quick, panicked manner. His cheek twitches, as though he’s trying to shift his expression into a grimace. You kiss him again, one he cannot reciprocate. You let soothing fire drip into his mouth.

He seems more angry than panicked within the context of your conversation, so you keep going. You take a moment to reach between the two of you and check if he’s still hard— yeah, like a fuckin’ marble statue. 

On your end, you’re getting something of a rage boner from how obstinate Jake is being.  
  
 You think of those pictures you’ve seen, the monstrous jinn on Wikipedia and Google. You feel thick fangs jut out against your lip, causing the flames to flicker in strange patterns.  
A big.  
 You feel horns spiral from side of your head as your height increases— you’re getting larger.  
Scary.  
 You press your hands against his neck. Your nails grow thick and long, into strong yellow claws that could rend flesh from bone in an instant.  
Jinn.  
 Big, chunky scales erupt from your forearms. They stick out like needles. 

Jake slams his eyes shut, and drifts immediately back into sleep.

Look at me.  
Ah ha ha ha NO.

Cant you just fuck me like a normal person???  
Like PLEASE I REALLY DO LIKE THIS I WANT TO BE FUCKED so lets just focus on our penii and NOT on the scary demon thing please!!!  
I'm not going to let you run away into your dreams.  
Not when you don’t realize how hypocritical you’re being.  
Hypocritical??? I am a MAN OF HONOR!  
Then back it up with action.  
I want you to come to the conclusion that you’re hurting people, real people, when you drown them in pleasure.  
Well so far i DONT SEE THE PROBLEM being on the other end it feels OUT OF THIS WORLD!!!  
Open your eyes, Jake.  
MAKE ME!!!!!  


| 

His body is so easy to control. You were born for this sort of thing. In your minds eye, you see his veins and pleasure points light up like a Christmas tree, and it is easier than anything to spread your clawed hands out over his body and force his spine to arch. 

You make him spread his legs with a mere thought. You sit up on your knees. You command him to hook his legs around the small of your back, helping him by hefting his ass up in the palm of your hand. 

You enter him. You’ve made yourself larger, but you’re not so large as to tear him apart. There’s no resistance from Jake. His body alights with ecstasy, his spine arching of its own accord this time. He spasms around your cock, his mouth gaping, precome leaking from his tip in sudden streams.

Even while asleep, angry-afraid at you, and seizing, his subconscious body still tries to ride your dick. He tries to grind up against you, in jerking, animalistic motions. The angle’s all wrong, he can’t get any purchase.  
  
---|---  
  
You make him. 

His eyes jerk open, but they’re so rolled back you only see the whites. You’re fully inside him, but you haven’t started fucking him. You grind against his hips to remind him of what’s to come. Jake has another fit of seizures. Two tears roll down his cheeks, one on each side. You decide to allow him to speak.

“Oh, god,” he whimpers, his mouth barely able to move. “I’m so- Dirk-”

“I won’t fuck you until you look at me,” you say through the flames, and your voice sounds like you just spent eight hours inhaling smoke.

Jake squeezes his eyes shut. You’re prepared to force them open again, but he does it of his own free will. Green irises with pupils hyper-expanded stare back at you. He shudders all over, with fear and anticipation.

“I- I want to come.” His voice is a desperate plea. “I need it.”

You hold him, your hands dwarfing his hips, and give him what he asked for. Jake’s lips part in a silent scream as you slam into him, and you will his body to stay locked around yours despite the convulsions wracking him. Overwhelmed to the point of sobbing, all Jake can gasp out is, “Please, please-” as you fuck him hard. 

You force him to look at you, through it all. If he tries to shut his eyes you open them right back up, and he gets the gist pretty quick. Despite forcing a lesson on him, you’re focused more on his pleasure this time around. You pay attention to how his muscles light up, how painfully hard he is, when to trigger his orgasm. You’ve been on the other end of this, and you know how good it feels. You don’t want to fuck that up for him even with the scary monster routine.

Not that you aren’t selfishly enjoying some parts— his ass is wonderfully tight. Warmth builds up in you slow, and you have Jake orgasm twice before you have yours. You come inside him in a fury, flooding the hell out of his ass. Unfortunately, it’s just normal human jizz.

You pull out, content, and give Jake full control of his body again. He pants, laying limp, exhausted. His first act of free will is to cover his eyes with his arm.

“Change back,” he begs. You see more tears slip down the side of his face. “Please.”

You do. It only takes a moment for Jake to spread his arms out for you, wanting a hug.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776)


	49. WHAT A LOVELY WAY TO BURN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _praise kink, orgasm as a reward, fireplay, temperature play_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - JAKE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)
> 
> A submissive fantasy?   
>  I thought you enjoyed being in charge.   
>  Well i do.   
>  But i also sometimes like being...   
>  *Blushes in a most forward way* a kept princess? If that makes sense.   
>  Solid. You like being serviced, that's cool.   
>  But as evidenced by the other scenes, I'm pretty bad at being a dom.   
>  You can request help from your companion?   
>  Ha ha. Funny joke.   
>  You think this service top shit is my jam? Fuck no.   
>  Therefore, I don't think I'm qualified to fulfill your praise kink.   
>  Sure you are! Just inflate my ego a bit!   
>  That's hard for me to do with a *normal* person. I usually end up ranting about myself like a complete idiot.   
>  And for a jinn that's morally bereft, malevolent, and psychopathic? Yeah, having a hard time imagining this going well.   
>  But i can read it scratched into the surface of your mental maze: you like me.   
>  Don't call me out like that, bro.   
>  You dont have to say it if it makes you feel uncomfortable! Carve the "why" into my flesh.   
>  Hmm.

  
"I need access to your back for this. It's the only stretch of skin big enough for my incessant rambling," you say, not bothering to observe your featureless surroundings. Jake stands in front of you, naked, and that's all that matters. "So I guess I'm topping."

He smiles, pleasantly, then gets down on the floor. He rolls over onto his stomach, and you position yourself on top of him, propping yourself up so you don’t crush him. He has his arms folded beneath his cheek, his head turned to the side so he can look at you if he really needs to. You’ve got a full view of his back. Your dick is hard, an erection of convenience, and you rub yourself against him in preparation.

"So can I just-" you start, feeling awkward.

"Yes! Strider, c'mon, I'm magic!" he interrupts, wiggling his rear at you. "I've got magic lubricating tailpipe powers!"

"God, Jake, your dirty talk is to be envied," you mutter, but spread him apart and push into him nonetheless.

It's fine. Feels normal as hell in comparison to the mind blowing shit that's going on with the other splinters of you, but you ain't gonna pass up a chance to do anal. You wait a moment, then slowly slide in and out of him, letting him adjust. His eyes are shut, biting his lip, but making no noise as he takes you.

Once you've got him relaxed enough, you push fully into him, so your hips rest against his plush rump, and stare down at him. You decide to sign him first, to declare your authorship.

You will yourself to write your name where his shoulder joins his neck, under his hairline. 

#### Dirk Strider

The whole word appears in a dance of small fire, as though it is being soldered onto his skin. Little candlelight flames flicker to life and trace out the letters, leaving trails of cooling orange in their wake. His whole body tenses, then relaxes, which feels fantastic on your shaft. He sighs with an unmistakable pleasure. When the flames die, your name is burned onto his neck in pure black.

You feel light headed, seeing your name there. You have a bit of a _thing_ for couple-tattoos. “Good?”

“Oh, yes, very. Please go on.”

You take a deep breath, focus on Jake’s soft skin, and burn your ever-pent-up monologues into his back. 

Tell me what it feels like.  
Burning. Then immediately a soothing sort of cool like youre swabbing aloe on me.  
I like it. I cannot usually get burnt as i am made of fire and shadow.  
Doesn't sound very sexy. Would you like a reacharound?  
No thanks! I can enjoy it plenty without you stroking my johnson.  
You do look pretty aroused.  
Your words push all the right buttons.  
Flatterer.

  


  


  


Dirk im gonna-  
No.  
Not until I'm done.  
Let's finish together, alright?  
I cant-  
Just breathe.  
I'm here.  
*Holds your hand.*

| 

So, I don’t know, what should I wax poetic about? Your dick? I love your dick, dude. I know most of our sex has been in the dreamworld, but I’m pretty sure you can play my ass like a goddamn 12 string mandolin even without the mind warping powers. I want you to fuck me all the goddamn time, forever. And that’s the highest praise I can think of.

I have to take this chance to drawl on about your hair. I adore your hair, and I don’t just mean the stuff up top. Although, hell, that’s nice too. It’s so thick and clean and, fuck, the color. Nighttime hath never known a black so rich. I want to thread my fingers through every luxurious bit of it, and that’s not hyperbole.

Or wait, perhaps you don’t want physical praise. Maybe objectification and superficiality stings you. Or do you revel in it? I can’t tell. Maybe another splinter of me can figure it out, but not this guy.

Jake, what do you want? Do you like love poetry written on the shells of your spine? Scribbles of declaration and romance on your bones like you did to me, our first time? I can't provide. I'm no poet, I can only do prose; I can write for days on end in cyclical, selfish sentences. Your body made into my diary.

What are you worth, to me? I don’t know yet. Why the fuck am I going through all this trouble for you, when from all appearances you don’t deserve it? It can’t solely be because I think you’re hot; I’m awful but I’m not that awful. I think I see in you the potential to become someone really interesting and good.

#### I want you to be good.

What if you’re just one of my projects, you know? I tend to get carried away with my projects. What if I “fix” you, or whatever, and I lose interest in you?

I believe that you have the ability to look inward on yourself. I believe you can learn to struggle and learn to grow. I see that in you.

I think you carved "death" into my soul. A curse, or a declaration of subconscious intent, or a mark for a hunter's target. It's only fair I write the same thing on you, right? I have the chance now. My autoresponder, my darker self, says it's what you deserve. But I cannot bring myself to: I value your life. And this isn't very erotic praise, but I find it worth mentioning. I want to save you, Jake English, despite what you have done.

| 

You look so good, with my words on you.  
Not sure about the content, but fuck, I love the black on your skin.  
Are you able to view how good you look?  
Yes but id rather just feel them.  
Its good. The scripture is very entrancing.  
And i love the cooling and burning feel.  
Its like a wave washing over me...

Do you want me to start moving?  
If you can manage!  
I'm a pro at multitasking.  
*Rolls eyes* Suuuure.  
How's this?  
Good.  
Oh! I liked that!  
Kiss my shoulder again when you do that.  
Of course.  
  
---|---|---  
| 

I'm all done.  
You've been good, Jake.  
Here. With me.  
Mm.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)


	50. DELICATESSEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _hard vore, vivisection, candy gore, old school anatomy diagrams (image heavy)_
> 
> _note: although containing no blood or actual gore, it's horror served straight. if you couldn't handle the "Mourning" chapter earlier, you probably shouldn't read this._
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - JAKE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)

Unlike the other scenes, you’re scared right off the bat.

You’re sitting on the featureless floor, utterly naked, with Jake kneeling next to you. You scrunch up immediately. You hug your knees to your chest to try and hide the shakes. Your autoresponder said you’d enjoy everything, but you cannot see how the hell you’ll get a boner from hard fuckin’ vore. Why do _you_ have to be the Dirk splinter that gets eaten? Why?

“Dirk,” Jake says, gently. He rests his hand on your shoulder. “Don’t be nervous, I won’t hurt you.”

“I can’t see how you’ll make literally eating me painless,” you choke out. “Considering your complete lack of sympathy for every living thing.”

“I don’t eat the living…” says Jake, folding his mouth to the side. “I only scavenge carrion.”

“Scavenge, yeah, sure,” you huff, then force yourself to straighten out. You look down at your knobbly knees. “So then, what’s the appeal of doing this to me?”

He strokes your shoulder with his thumb, trying to comfort you. He totally ignores your question. “I swear on my honor that I won’t cause you pain. I’ll be very careful to dream it up real good for you.”

You groan, resigned to your fate, and run your hands through your hair in an attempt to man up and go through with it. It’s just a dream, a temporary nightmare. You can do this. Jake guides you back, slowly, and has you lay flat beneath him. He straddles you and leans over you, making soft, empathic eye contact. He’s blocking your view— you can’t see if he’s hard. You’re _definitely_ not hard.

“Let’s start with something simple. Just one easy peasy little thing, pet, I think you’ll like it very much,” he says, in a lullaby voice. He rests his hand on your chest, fingers splayed out. “Tell me when you want me to stop.”

You don’t get a chance to open your mouth before he begins. 

Your pulse hammering, your blood pounding in your ears, your bodily panic… all of it stops with a single touch. He digs his fingertips into your chest. They spasm around your breast, and he draws his hand back, pulling your heart from you with ethereal magic. Your actual, honest-to-god heart ghosts through your skin, no longer beating. You go totally limp and lax with nothing to power your body. Your eyes glaze over, and you do not feel the need to blink.

He’s right, it didn’t hurt at all. You didn’t feel much of anything, actually. You could even classify it as a relief, the tense fear dissipating with the removal of one organ. He catches your levitating heart, and cradles it in his hand. He looks at it like he’s going to begin the ‘alas poor Yorick’ soliloquy.

He holds it where you’re able to look at it, without turning your head. It looks like a heart, but it doesn’t drip with your blood. Instead, a sparkling, transparent liquid leaks from it. To be fair to Jake, it doesn’t look totally appalling. It reminds you of simple syrup. 

“Are you alright?” Jake asks you, his eyes scanning your heart like it’s a good book.

Your body cannot answer, so you have to tell him, Yes.

| 

He takes a bite from the thick curved part. It’s a polite bite, nothing greedy, and you watch him sink his teeth into the pink muscle. Sugar syrup flows from it like water, drips down his chin and hands and arms and chest and pools onto your groin. It’s room temperature, sticky on your skin.

He only eats two of the chambers; the big meaty parts. The rest he tosses off somewhere behind him. You suppose it’s just wetting his appetite.

You feel weirdly relaxed, watching the whole spectacle. You guess he took your heart first so you don’t have to worry about the rest. You can’t bring yourself to give a shit without the physicality of fear. It’s been years since you opened a psychology textbook— you wonder which theory of emotion that proves. Cannon-Bard theory?

Not that you aren’t experiencing any emotions at all. You’re just having a hard time figuring out how to define them.  
  
---|---  
  
| 

Syrup dripping down his lips, he ducks in close and goes for your neck. You feel him bite into flesh, and it gives way with all the resistance of fresh watermelon. It tickles; you'd laugh if you could move your face. He laps and sucks and kisses and bites and swallows until he gets to your spine. The whole thing is sort of… tender. You think you feel… appreciated? You feel like you've reached penultimate usefulness.

After he gnaws through your bone there, your perceptions start to drift. You can feel and see everything, but it’s distant. The horrifying strangeness of it all dissipates, and you are left with only the sensation of being enjoyed. You feel like you’re in a sensory deprivation tank, with various parts of you alighting with a pleasant static depending on what Jake is doing to you.  
  
|  Is it sick that I might like this?  
Its just a dream. Its not real.  
While you and the AR have convinced me of the "dream factor," like I'm aware I will not die during this session, my perceptions are still very much real.  
And I like this. But not necessarily in a sexual way.  
I like being treated like I'm a delicacy. That's freaky as shit.  
Why rattle your brain over it? You like what you like. Who cares if its labeled nutty?  
My ethics care. What's it say about me? Do I consider myself so expendable that my value to others is best expressed through consumption?  
Or what if this is some horrendous forbidden fruit? One "taste" and I'm hooked?  
I might end up like that guy who consensually got his dick eaten off in the bathtub in the 2000s.  
  
  
|  Doubt it! You cant recreate this kind of feel good druggy business in the real.  
And youre not addled enough to cross the streams of imagination and reality and get all delusional.  
I guess the abstraction does add a certain something. Like if this had blood and guts or if I was passing out from the pain, fuck no, I wouldn't be into this. You could pump me full of every type of bath salt in the world and I wouldn't be into that.  
So. Ok. I secede. I can have the one weird implausible kink of being a delicious Dirk cannoli.  
And the fetish is too surreal to consume me. Not when I'm in a right state of mind.  
*Side eyes you at the word consume.*  
  
  
|  Enough about me.  
Do you derive sexual pleasure from this? Or is this just a gluttony fantasy?  
I dont care and i dont want to think about it.  
We have to do a tit for tat, here. You *have* to think about it.  
I dont want to!  
Why? Human scruples got you down?  
No its just.... its kind of a little kooky to think about fucking my food. :/  
I guess from your perspective it's like cutting a hole in a cantaloupe, microwaving it, and fucking it.  
Wait, are you fucking me right now?  
Are you hard, dude? Are you fucking the cantaloupe hole? You got a fetish for supple fruits?  
That is without a doubt the worst way to put it strider.  
I can think of far worse metaphors.  
You want me to try?  
Tra la la la la im not listening!!!  
Look, you slurped away my vision, and frankly everything's a bit fuzzy below the point where you, you know, decapitated me.  
Thanks for that, by the way. Always wondered what that felt like.  
No problemo!  
So are you doing anything to me right now?  
Yeah its called vore.  
You know what I mean.  
Do i?  
The way you're dodging the question clues me in.  
Which part of me are you having sex with right now?  
My mouth?  
The usual hole?  
Or did you tear me a new one?  
Or, ooo, are you skullfucking me? You sure do love skulls.  
Please. Tell me. I'm *dying* of curiosity. I promise I won't judge. I can barely even bring myself to give a shit.  
You dont care at all?  
Kind of hard to give a crap when my vitals are flat.  
Although later? Yeah, might have a nightmare or two.  
Oh no! I dont want to give you nightmares. :(  
  
  
|  ...  
God, you're so... awful. I don't know how to define the massive disconnect between your surface intent and what you're doing.  
How are you going to reconcile this, when I split the jinn from the human?  
???  
You're going to realize what you've done, and I don't know if you're going to survive that.  
Looking at it that way, it's almost cruel to bring back your moral perceptions only for them to crush you.  
Or it would be, if the alternative of you remaining static weren't so horrifying.  
This is objectively disgusting, Jake.  
  
  
|  Not for me! I dont get what youre on about.  
From my end, I can pretty quickly recover. Some dream where I get eaten by my boy toy, am made of delicious sugary syrup, and kind of enjoyed it? Alright, whatever, give me a couple days to get over it.  
But you've done this *in real life.* How the fuck are you going to cope with that once the jinn is driven out?  
How many times do i have to tell you!? Im just one god damned man!  
I refuse, I *refuse* to believe that your human self thinks eating corpses is okay.  
Not unless you have some severe extremo psychosis issues, like "Dirk, the demons are telling me to eat this person's face," which, no. That's not you.  
How will you come to terms with what you've done?  
I dont understand what i would have to come to terms with strider! This right here is a dream.  
And when i get a craving for cartilage its not like im doing anything dastardly! Its certainly taboo for you humans but im only digging into the already deceased.  
  
  
|  I don't know how to tell you that it's wrong to eat people, dude.  
Maybe this is a species issue. Let me put it this way: would it be disgusting for you to eat another jinn?  
Say, my autoresponder?  
Yes! Djinn dont get delicious when we die we just burn away.  
Nothing texturally interesting at all.  
...  
I'm starting to see the necessity of religion for you guys.  
Hey. Jake. Ever thought about converting to Islam. Christianity. Buddhism. Zoroastrianism. Shinto.  
NO!   
  
|  Think with your brain, not your stomach and/or dick.  
Living by your passions is fun for a while, but you have to apply restraint in order to build a community and live with others.  
And I think your jinn friends figured that out already.  
You need to try again. Play along with a group.  
Theyre no fun at all! They dont let me do stuff like this even though i know they secretly want to do it too!!!!  
  
  
|  I think I get where you're coming from. Abstractly.  
But Jake, you're not talking about some innocuous "sin," like a glass of wine at dinner or buying a scratchcard once a month or having sex with someone you trust.  
I don't know what it's like with jinn, but I'm sure that the non-Islamic population has an "innocuous sin" version of the corpse-eating habit.  
Like eating chicken bones might be okay. Or rotten animals.  
But like how single glasses of wine can develop into alcoholism when someone's life is in the shitter, you've let this whole thing grow out of control.  
How would you know mr perfect?  
Addiction runs in my family.  
Is that what this is, Jake? An addiction?  
No its just a yummy treat i like to indulge in.  
Am I that delicious?  
Is this worth a hundred lifetimes of loneliness?  
Its worth it if im unhappy all the time with others.  
What do you like so much about this, Jake? Why this? Why is this a fantasy of yours?  
  
|  I dont know.  
Besides for the tangy taste and tactile indulgence and the neat collectable skull you get at the end its like...  
Its a pleasant way to say goodbye. It makes me feel like their death wasnt a waste or utterly meaningless.  
But I'm very much alive.  
I guess i  
I dont know.  
I want to feel like im not wasting you. Like im not ruining this brilliant mind.  
  
  
|  Aww. You do care.  
Sorry to rain on your parade, but you are absolutely going to ruin my of-average-intelligence mind if you keep up this jinn seizure shit.  
And hey, consider this: if you stop fuckin' messing with people and pushing them too far... then you won't have the need to go through this goodbye dinner ritual.  
Stop repressing that. Stop distracting yourself with these visceral pleasures of the flesh and face the truth.  
Anyway, fuck it, I'm done. We've walked this path as far as it can go.  
Im not full yet :(  
I don't care.  
Put me back together.  
Give me a sec.  
  
It takes him more than “a sec.” In your hazy void, you don’t feel him eat anything else. You figure he’s, uh, finishing.

Once he's done, you suddenly become hyper aware of _every single part of you._ Jake, for reasons you don’t particularly want to think about, apparently put your head between your legs. You’re borderline disassembled like a bunch of Lego blocks if about 25% of the kit got eaten by the cat. Your detached jaw is basically shoved in your fuckin’ ass, which is the _worst_ sensation you have ever experienced.

He wills you back together. You are constructed in a blustering whir of magic. Your bones and teeth and skull are pulled through your own body, your flesh is reapplied, and you have the unpleasant sensation of being turned inside out as you get situated and regrow all your limbs. Jake keeps his word: it doesn’t hurt at all. Might give you PTSD, but hey, at least you’re not missing your fingers.

You jerk up in a rush, finally back together. You blink fast, willing everything to focus, and pat your body all over. Yup, everything there. Your heart is pounding in your ears.

Jake is crosslegged next to you, folding his arms and looking grumpy like you ruined his orgasm. You guess you did kinda cut his fantasy short.

“... How’d I taste,” you ask, because it’s the only thing you can think of.

“... Bland,” he grunts, angrily.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)


	51. DIRK IN A BOX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _gloryholes, trapped in a box, collar, handcuffs, self-cest and self-hate_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - AR](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776)

You are kneeling, naked, inside a small, pure white box. Your wrists are cuffed together, then linked by a chain to a collar around your neck. You can't move your hands lower than your waist due to this limitation, and you suspect the purpose of this is to prevent you from jerking off. The rest of you is free to move, although you don't have a lot of room. The box is short, too short to stand up in, but you've got enough space to get up on your knees or squat. The width and length are much more constrained, requiring some tight maneuvering in order for you to turn around.

What the fuck. Where's Jake.  
Watching.  
Can I talk to him?  
No.  
Are you serious? This whole thing is supposed to be about teaching him a lesson, not your inane fantasies about watching me suck dick in a glory hole jack-in-the-box.  
Let a guy have his indulgences.  
I want to see you get objectified.  
Since we look exactly the same, and are essentially the same person, that really says something about our psychological makeup.  
We could write thousand page essays on our psychological makeup.  
While it would stroke my ego, I have better shit to do.  
Like suck dick.  
Get slurpin'.  
| 

On a side wall, there's a hole cut into the box, at face level. You swivel towards it. A cock pops through the hole. It's a nice cock, erect and plump and a pretty pink, but it's neither your own nor Jake's. You can't resist yourself-- you raise up your cuffed hands and stroke the head with your thumb, smearing precome over the tip.

This might be your autoresponder's fantasy, but you're into it too. You're too paranoid and picky in real life to indulge in some bathroom glory hole play with someone you've never met, but in here? Bring on the anonymous dicks.

Besides for the automatic STI avoidance, you get another sexy bonus with this setup: the conversation going on in your head. The sound of your own voice turns you off so hard that it loops around and becomes irritating enough to cause a _very_ physical reaction. A rage boner, to use the scientific term. You're probably going to end up coming based on sheer self-diatribe alone.

Your cock is already gettin' all heated. You haven't even started giving head.  
  
---|---  
So. Is he really watching or are you just fucking with me?  
Could be either.  
The uncertainty turns you on, so I'll keep reality obscured.  
Are you putting on a show for Jake, or for yourself? One’s respectable, the other is narcissistic, and you love treading that line.  
Asswipe.  
Let's play pretend, though.  
Let's say he's definitely watching. Let's say he planned this whole thing.  
He's "forcing" you to service strangers.  
"Forcing" is in quotes because you fucking love it. You love that ownership fantasy. You want to let someone control you.  
Have no fear though, Jake's just as depraved as you. He's teased it a lot.  
I golly gosh darn sure do love taking the free will outta my gentleman callers and waifus. I want to hang you on my trophy wall and add you to my doll collection.  
Entomology pins get me off mmmmm baby light my fire.  
Don't imitate him like that.  
Why not? Are you trying to uphold his honor?  
You've really taken a liking to this guy. It's only been a week.  
To be fair, the soul reading situation bumps up the intimacy.  
That's just an excuse. The only reason you like him is because of the sex.  
I disagree.  
You're lying to yourself. You're shallow.  
You're such a hormonal dudebro slut that you'll get attached to the first thing that gets you to come through your ass.  
The proof's in the pudding. You're getting rawed by a disembodied cock without being coerced.  
You don't even know who the fuck that is. You don't know where that's been.  
It's a fantasy, you moron.  
A believable fantasy.  
You'd totally do this shit in real life.  
Trussed up to get fucked for hours and hours until you're nothing but an object to be used for quick relief.  
Are you trying to goad me? All you're doing is increasing my boner's power level.  
Look at it, you're making it cry with sheer masculine gusto.  
| 

You brace yourself on the wall, and get as much purchase as the handcuffs will allow. You lick the bitter precome off the tip of this perfect dream cock, then press your lips to the velvety shaft and kiss up the length. You swirl your tongue around it, putting on a show for... uh... yourself? Jake? Honestly, you just don't feel right if you don't make your blowjobs Extra.

You work yourself up to deepthroating, taking it into your mouth and backing off, building up until your lips hit the wall and the head taps your throat. You always like this, being of service. It gives you such a thrill to wonder who you're even servicing.

You feel something prod your asscheek, then wetly slide up against it. The tip of it is slick, the shaft erect, and the whole thing is all lubed up and ready for you. You're surprised you didn't notice a hole beneath you. You wonder how the mystery guy is positioned beneath the box in order to prod you like that. Laying underneath the thing?

You suspect that if you looked at said mystery cock, you might see your own. And thinking about your qareen fucking you turns you off so hard it makes your dick pump out a bit of precome. Yeah, best not to think about that. 

Momentarily detaching your lips from cock #1, you get in the dick riding position you’ve nicknamed “The Beyoncé Squat.” You take a moment to mentally prepare yourself and activate bottom-mode, then ease yourself fully onto cock #2 without pain. Whoever it is, they're average (like you) and don't require a lot of adjustment. You do still need a little time to get used to the warm, full sensation before you start bouncing up and down, so you resume your BJ efforts while you wait.  
  
I can't believe you love this so much.  
If there wasn't a ticking timer ending in your death, you wouldn't have tried to help Jake at all.  
You'd seize yourself into an inert sex doll. You'd become addicted to him.  
And addiction runs in the family. 'Bout time you went down the Rose and Roxy path.  
Fuck you, man. Talk shit about me all you want but *that* crossed the line.  
Nonetheless, it's too bad Jake lacks tact. He could really be your live in dom in a 24/7 sex den.  
Jake wouldn't mind the total nymphomania, I'm sure. All he wants is a good time, and your body and money can provide for his few needs.  
The moron doesn't strive for much in life, after all. The dude hasn't even broached the third tier of Maslow’s hierarchy.  
Maybe you two belong together.  
I'd ask what the point of this is, but I know, since I'm basically you.  
Although I thought the jinn version of myself would have an iota more self-respect than I.  
I have reams of self-respect, dude. It's you I don't respect.  
I see in you a weaker version of myself, and I hate it.  
I'd argue, but you're right.  
However, I can turn this back around at you.  
Masochistically getting off to images of your weaker self getting fucked by strangers writes its own essay.  
And berating him about a developing relationship is even more deranged.  
Are you jealous, dude? Are you actually jealous of me and Jake?  
Of course not.  
What's really sad about it is that Jake's not even stable.  
As he is now, he doesn't even make for a good friend. Anything more? Forget it.  
You're jealous of that, huh?  
Not at all.  
Do you have many friends up there in jinn-land? Do you have a boyfriend? Call boy? When's the last time you had sex?  
I've moved beyond the need for physical pleasures. I pursue higher and more sophisticated hobbies.  
Ok, r/incels.  
I've got good news for you, though. There's technically two Jakes.  
What? You think I'd be into the jinni?  
If I could operate on Jake's level, with all the psychotic tendencies that comes with?  
Yeah, I'd fuckin' love figuring him out and fixing him and shit. Having crazy sex with both our powers combined.  
Fortunately, I'm a normal person. And I'd like to get to know a normal version of Jake.  
But hey, you can have the rest.  
What kind of bullshit deal are you trying to pull with me here.  
You can get the jinn Jake.  
And I get whatever's left.  
And you and I never interact with each other ever again.  
Shut up and have your orgasm, already.  
| 

You settle back into a pattern, sucking off this cock while you grind your ass a bit against the one coming out of the floor. Although pleasurable, it becomes a little monotonous, and your attentions are pulled to your autoresponder berating you. Him prattling on and on is doing… _things_ to you. You make a motion to jerk off and get it over with, but the chain yanks against your neck and you grunt in surprise around the cock. You pull off it, to regain your bearings. 

Your gag reflex getting momentarily triggered must have set the mystery person off, because in front of your eyes, the dick tenses, then proceeds to paint two stripes of white down your cheeks. You at least manage to shut your eyes in time. Warmth drips down your chin, onto your chest.

It withdraws once it’s done making a mess of you, and is replaced by another perfectly plump cock— again, neither yours nor Jakes. Your rage-boner is aching, and you’re frustrated about this fuck leaving you all dirty with come, so you decide to focus on getting off instead of sucking off.

You finally begin to take full advantage of the cock below you, slamming into it at full force. It’s more difficult because you’re actively riding it, and you pray you don’t tire yourself out before you manage to orgasm. Hopefully it shouldn’t take too long, you hate the voice in your head so much that it’s making you itchy with arousal. Like you want to crawl out of your own skin.

You brace yourself on the wall and stare at the cock in front of you and get pissed about the come in your hair and bounce up and down on this thing. You find a spot that feels good against your prostate and stick with it, feeling bitter orgasm begin to well up in you.  
  
| 

You're so mad about him telling you to orgasm that you actually orgasm, shivering through your final, desperate thrusts as you pump out everything you've got into the white box. When you're done, you rest there, shuddering, and the cock pulls out from you without orgasm.

You wait for the big reveal, your AR pulling the curtain back and being like, 'Surprise! You were fucking me all along!' or, 'Jake wasn't watching you at all, you fool!' But it never comes.

He doesn't give you the satisfaction of getting a proper conclusion. That fucker.  
  
[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776)


	52. FUCK IT, WE'RE SHOWING UP ROSE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _xenozoophilia, ABO stuff, knotting, big ol' dicks, and like a shit ton of xeno jizz_
> 
> _note: if you have a hard time scrolling down, try scrolling with your thumb/mouse over the top half of the black box_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - DIRK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)

"Can you become more monstrous?" you ask, eying him up in the pitch black surroundings. "For instance, becoming a giant wolf with a giant dong? Just a suggestion."

He blinks at you, mulling it over, then takes off his glasses— the only item of clothing he’s wearing. They vanish into thin air. He squints his eyes shut very hard, like he just ate something extremely sour, then opens them. His pupils and irises and whites are gone. His sockets are filled with nothing but shadows. A shiver rolls down your spine as he stares at you.

When his mouth parts to speak, gold fire laps from the corners of his lips, pours down his front like a waterfall of lava. His voice sounds grander, more booming. "Like this?"

"Good start," you say, maybe getting a little too excited. "Can you change forms, though? Something inhuman, preferably."

"Kind of? I don't know if it's what you've got in mind. Help me get this off," he says, spreading his arms out to you.

You eye him up, unsure, before wrapping your fingers around his wrists. You tug, and pull his skin off like a tarp. It dissipates into ash between your hands. All that’s left is the spirit beneath.

You’re not sure what you’re looking at. You narrow your eyes at the fuckin’ ineffable multidimensional Giygas-y shadow thing swirling in front of you and feel your brain fart out. He doesn’t stay like that for long, warping himself into a solid creature with a tornado of fire and shadow. 

He certainly turns into something giant wolf-esque. Kind of werewolf-y. You're flattered he's humoring you. 

His new body is pitch black, so dark you cannot make out the outline of it against your already dim surroundings. You’re able to make out the basic form of him after observing him for a couple seconds. He’s got this glow that shifts and swirls within him, a golden lightshow that flickers through his skin like you’re looking up at the sun from under the ocean. It’s as though the shadow is struggling to contain the fire inside.

He’s got a couple feet on you now. His legs are jointed backwards, like a dog’s. He has long, thick arms that end in ridiculously massive black claws, dangling all the way down to his knees. You can’t see his eyes. The only features of his permanently visible are the many sets of glowing teeth, stacked inside each other like a shark’s. Their contrast with his ineffable black body reminds you of the aliens in Attack the Block. Saliva, or some other glowing gold liquid, drips like syrup down the edges of his gums.

“Holy shit,” you say, looking up at him with an awe you cannot hide. Your mouth threatens to turn up into a smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more exited for anything in my life.”

He reaches out for you. His hands are oversized to the max, even the most poorly drawn yaois got nothin’ on these claws. His palm covers the entire span of your chest. His hand doesn’t have nails— his fingers end in blunt points that feel like heated marble when they press on your skin. 

You get the hint. You sink to your knees. Due to his height, you actually have to straighten your back to reach… where you think his groin is. It’s sort of hard to tell. You rest your hands against his narrow hips to try and figure out positioning. He’s soft and warm and furry beneath your palms, which is basically all you wanted. Yiff yiff, baby. 

Your proximity to him apparently turns him on, because you watch a sheath open in front of you like the goddamn Black Gate of Mordor. Light drips from the slit in delicious pools, and you lick at it to encourage his cock to grow. It’s got the same smoky taste as everything else on him, the taste of lapsang souchong.

You take him fully into your mouth once he’s exposed enough, shut your eyes, and challenge yourself by trying to figure out what kind of dick he dreamed up for you. You’ve shoved enough novelty dildos in your mouth to be a pro at this type of guessing game. The shaft hardens in a chubbier way than you’re used to. The tip certainly isn’t human, coming instead to a soft point of velvety skin that drips with light. 

Jake gently curls his claws around the back of your neck and encourages you to bob along his length. Whatever's in his mouth drips onto your head and back and shoulders. It sizzles and then evaporates where it lands, sounding and acting like boiling water, although you feel nothing but a pleasant, gooey warmth in the moments it lingers. 

He grows too big for you to comfortably suck without prepping yourself for deepthroating, so you pull off him and open your eyes. His large, pitch black, inhuman cock is outlined by luminous veins, flowing with gold. Gooey fire drips from the tip like precome, a type of natural lube that’s extremely appealing. And, oh, fuck yeah. There’s a knot at the base.

You can almost hear the "boi-oi-oing" sound effect from your instantaneous erection. For the first time in probably about two years, your face splits into a full, unabashed, unapologetic grin. You cackle, despite yourself, and bellow triumphantly, "Eat _shit,_ Rose Lalonde!"

Jake makes a noise that sounds like wind blowing over a boom mic. You cannot bother to try to interpret what he means, because you are basically backwards somersaulting in order to assume the mating position as fast as humanly possible.

“C’mon, mount me and tie me, ya fuckin’ stud,” you babble, too hyped to pretend at irony. You clamor to get all your limbs and order. “I’m a filthy bitch that needs to be bred, c’mon, baby.”

Jake makes a weird, unearthly noise that’s halfway between the sound of a helicopter hovering and a confused ‘awoo?’ You roll onto your stomach, then wiggle your ass at him. In case he didn’t understand your dirty talking, you beg for him. You’re so turned on you don’t even care about how whiny your voice is. “Fuck me, Jake.”

He shifts like a shadow moving with the sunset. You feel his soft legs kneel around yours, and his cock drip light down the curve of your back. You feel his smooth claws spread your comparatively paltry asscheeks apart, and you moan loudly when he enters you.

You want it to hurt, a little. You want to feel that stretch and tension that comes with being unprepared for a giant fuckin’ dong slamming into you. It's not horrendously painful, when he pushes into you --you're horny and aching for him-- but it stings in a way that you're craving. Your body pushed to a limit that you usually have to work your way up to. You choke out a sob and scratch at the floor as a kneejerk reaction to the jabbing hurt. 

He forces himself into you, and you take it all to the top of the knot. He doesn't start fucking you immediately, thank Christ, instead choosing to situate himself in order to find the best angle. He ends up propping himself over you, his arms locked straight, and his hips flat against yours. You get a great view of his claws, and the splatter of the glow from his mouth against the floor in front of you is… weirdly entrancing.

He doesn’t hold back. He starts off slow, but with long, full strokes, and with his length those are some goddamn _long, full strokes._ You are whining and wrapping your hand around his thumb-claw-thing instantaneously. While he’s not comically huge or anything, the size is enough to overwhelm you totally. He’s so big that he hits all the right spots no matter what, and you are lost in warmth and pleasure with every thrust.

It doesn’t take him long to pick up the pace. Getting fucked by him is the goddamn dream. Having your prostate smashed by a giant demon dog cock is one for your scrapbook. You are so excited for the knot you’re actively edging yourself just by thinking about it. You cannot wait to rub this in Rose’s face.

You feel him start to thrust faster and deeper as his cock gears up to tie you. The frustrated growls and purrs he emits as he tries to fuck further into you are some of the hottest sounds you've ever heard. You are _so_ close to coming, but you don’t dare touch yourself and ruin the experience.

You feel this sudden pressure inside you, an extremely tight stretch in all the right places, and Jake comes to a shuddering halt as he begins to empty himself into you. Your ass fuckin’ clenches around him, of its own free will, like it wants him to stay there forever. It’s more the thought of it that pushes you over the edge, the sensation of being locked into orgasm, of being bred, than the actual physicality of it. You come, shuddering, grinning to yourself and nearly laughing at the thought of living out your furry fantasy.

Jake’s still trying to hump into you, although he can’t move much. Despite him being locked in, he’s expelling so much weird spirit jizz that it’s overflowing you. You’re so oversensitive that you can’t feel much inside, but the warmth of it oozing down your legs is surprisingly quite nice. Kind of like hot water being poured over you.

He calms down after a minute or two, making these wheezing noises that sound like a bunch of distorted voices panting over each other. Your thoughts and feelings come back to you slowly, and now that your Masculyyne Enyrjjies are expelled, being tied with this… this horrifying nightmare dog made of teeth and ooze… seems a lot less sexy.

"Hey," you mutter. "Hey, can we talk?"

Sure.

"No, like, with our voices," you say. Despite the urge to have him human again, you still feel warm from the afterglow. "Can you change back, but keep the weird dick? I want to stay like this."

Wind ruffles your hair as darkness swirls around him, and the claws in your view are replaced with Jake’s soft brown hands. You feel his weight fully on your back this time, basically lying on top of you. You wiggle your shoulder, and he gets the hint, the both of you rolling onto your sides so he can spoon you. He locks his arms around your waist, and buries his face in your shoulder. His dick is definitely still stuck in you, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

"Thanks for indulging me," you say, squeezing his hand. "Did you have fun?"

"More or less," he says. You feel him inhale, like he's hesitating, but then he shoulders on with, "I don't much like being a monster."

You can't help it; you snort out a laugh. "That's the most ironic thing I've ever fuckin’ heard, dude."

Jake either doesn't get it or just ignores it, because he asks, "Why do you enjoy being ravished by beastly machinations?"

"I got a kink for knotting after reading all that Supernatural A/B/O fanfiction, and I'm livin' the dream," you say, wiggling your ass a little. He's still hard as ever, and the slight rubbing against your prostate makes your cock twitch. "Just kidding. Besides for the physicality and novelty of a cool dong, I like the 'othering' aspect."

He must be feeling the afterglow too, because he nuzzles the curve between your neck and shoulders, then kisses you gently down the lines of your skin. You feel the warm, smooth liquid he pumped into you start to stream down your thighs. The sensation is a lot more pleasant than the human equivalent. You continue on, because he's not talking.

"It's part of why I summoned you in the first place," you say. "The fantasy of being plowed by something evil, something _wrong._ Which is kind of what I got. But the part that didn't turn out right is the end goal of the fantasy: in the end, the 'evil monster' isn't supposed to be evil at all. Just misunderstood or, at the very least, able to be contained by my protagonistic wits."

"I like those stories too," he mutters, against your neck. He kisses up your jawline, and whispers his words against the shell of your ear. "But I don't think I'm the sexy Swamp Thing or sexy Dracula or what-have-you in this narrative. I might make a lot of mistakes, but I don't believe I'm a monster at all."

You frown. "Look, dude, even ignoring the more metaphorical accusation of 'you're a monster,' I am at least 95% certain that jinn are considered monsters. There's definitely horror movies and stuff about 'em." 

"There's not a whole bootload but they're a fun romp!" he says, giggling. He gets as close as possible to you so he can rest his cheek against yours. You love the lewd sound of his cock pushing further into you. "If you look at it that way, I guess you have a point."

Oh, shit. That actually worked. "Yeah, and from there, it's not hard to come to the self-realization that, well, you're kind of an actual terror."

"Shhh," he says, before you can finish the word 'terror.' He takes your chin in his hand and turns it towards him, angling himself so his lips are brushing yours. "Shut up and kiss me."

You fall for it; hook, line, and sinker.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)


	53. SWEET DREAMS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _shibari, suspension, flowers_
> 
> Back to [TABLE OF CONTENTS - DIRK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)

|  Dirk?  
Yeah?  
Are you afraid of falling in love?  
I don't know, dude.  
Can't you just look in my head for the answer?  
In all honesty its taking me an unusually long time to figure you out.  
Mapping you is a right challenge! I cant do it in just a week or so.  
The events and memories and feelings and whatnot are all there but...  
Too big a maze?  
Too big a maze.  
  
---|---  
|  Well, alright, since you asked, and since my wires are all exposed anyway, might as well have a discussion about it.  
Besides, dialectics are a major turn on.  
Youre such an oddball.  
So are you scared of love?  
Yeah, I think I am afraid.  
Why?  
'Cuz I’ll hurt the poor guy I end up falling for.  
Really? You think that?  
I do.  
Comes from experience, you know? I go in hard.  
  
|  Too hard.  
And the worst part? I get obsessive.  
I’ll become so passionate about somebody it’s hard to do anything but hyper focus on them.  
Whats so bad about that? Sounds downright romantic.  
I try to fix people, try to make them into what I want.  
But it comes from a place of being unable to understand my boyfriend.  
They never needed to be "fixed" in the first place. It was all about what *I* wanted.  
Or what I perceived they wanted.  
You were young though.  
You may have had many a gentleman caller since your last long term relationship but never a proper courtship!  
  
|  I don’t think I’ve changed since my last... courtship.  
Sure you have.  
It may have taken a little while but at least NOW you can read your partners well enough to know what needs to be fixed!  
...  
So why'd you ask about this, anyway?  
Do you fear falling in love?  
Yes but for the opposite reasons.  
Im not all that scared of hurting my loves. Is that bad?  
Uh, yes?  
But let's bypass that for now. I think your empathy will improve if my little mission succeeds, here.  
  
|  So, what does that mean? Does it mean you’re afraid of hurting *yourself* when you fall in love?  
More or less.  
It bums me out when my loves fall prey to mortality. Im real keen on avoiding that heartbreak!  
Great.  
Youre not one of said loves by the by.  
Am I not? How do you know that won't change?  
I know.  
While I wouldn't consider myself a solid romantic interest nor someone worth falling in love with, love is illogical.  
You could trip ass over tea kettle down the stairs for me any day now, without warning.  
Ain't that a horror story and-a-half?  
  
|  Nope dont worry i will not fall for you.  
I would have already knocked myself down your metaphorical stairs if i were destined to fall for you.  
How do you know?  
I fall in love passionately and suddenly. Love at first sight!  
Your jinn-ness is showing. That doesn't exist.  
Sure it does!  
Sometimes i just feel that PASSION when i look at someone.  
That's called a boner, dude.  
No way!  
Its just like hollywood! Like in 1987 classic romantic comedy epic moonstruck.  
  
|  Moonstruck wasn't a great example of how love works.  
They got engaged after literally one date.  
Yeah THATS WHAT IM SAYING.  
Its not about STUPID HUMAN REALISM jeez its about THOSE GOOD VIBES.  
Isnt there something so appealing about getting your life shaken up by a beautiful man whom you fall instantly in love with in a quirky world where everything is funny and nothing hurts?  
Are you Nicolas Cage or Cher?  
Hmmm an excellent quandary!  
I'm jonesing for you to be Cage, Moonstruck is the only movie I've seen where he's markedly fuckable. That guyliner in his introduction scene. Woof.  
Actually i think youre cage and im cher. Because im positively ancient and used to the same old same old and youre the rambunctious young wolf who cant be tamed!  
  
|  Wow, you're right and I hate it.  
Quick do your best nic cage impression!  
Nnnnuugghhhhhh it's me, Nicolas Cage.  
What the effing fuck was that?  
You put me on the spot.  
Anyway, let's stop talking about love and Nicolas Cage, as they are both severe boner killers,  
And instead talk about sex. Or something.  
I do love romping around in the bedroom. I think its the best way to get to know and explore someone.  
That's a strange point of view. I think it's skewed because your powers allow you to delve into someone's mind.  
No way josé! I am positively certain i would feel the same way even if i were cursed with plain jane normalcy.  
  
|  Raucous physicality is the only way i can truly express myself to my friends.  
Sex is good, but it's not everything.  
I disagree! I adore getting physical more than anything!  
I thought you liked a good roll in the hay?  
I do. But I've learned that a warm hole isn't going to make me content with my life.  
*Elbows you in the ribs.* What about something IN your warm hole?  
That either, smartass.  
Sex makes me happy, but it doesn't fulfill me unless I'm with the rare person who can truly unwind me.  
Which, in the end, is why I summoned you in the first place.  
Thats hunky dory but i sure as fuck dont feel the same way.  
  
|  It doesnt matter who it is! I want to play and explore and observe. Its fun and lovely no matter what.  
Just like your movies.  
Just like my movies.  
Am I really the same as everyone else?  
Well.  
Hmm.  
Thats a mind stumper.  
Yes? But also no.  
If were being honest bro youre totally bonkers. Like off the wall nutso. Youre a completely insane madman.  
Coming from you, that means a lot.  
  
|  Anyway, this is nice. This whole thing.  
You like it?  
Yeah, I think I like this one the best.  
This scene.  
Because youre all tied up and cozy?  
Yeah. I mean.  
Dick's hard. Feelings are warm. Ass is happy.  
I feel like something is blooming in me.  
As ridiculous as that sounds.  
It's nice.  
  
|  Well glad youre having fun.  
You're also being very, dare I say, soft?  
Not what I expected for my bondage fantasy.  
What did you expect?  
Whips and chains. Naughty, sinful things. You going all murder-stab-crazy on me when I'm tied up and defenseless.  
I really think you have the wrong idea about what i like...  
Hmm, yeah, probably.  
Anyway, is it cool if we go quiet here? I think I’d like to focus on, ah, what you’re doing to me.  
Me too.  
I love this, Jake.  
  
  
[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)


	54. OOOO, SHOCK TREATMENT!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _violet wand, electrocution, spreader bars, restraints, gags, chastity cage, prostate milking, overstimulation_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - JAKE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)

You are laying flat, on a wooden operating table. The first thing you see is Jake, standing over you, wearing a totally rockin’ sexy mad scientist outfit. It's a dark gray long sleeved jacket with an asymmetric lancer front, a black collared shirt and white bow tie beneath, and black compression shorts that are vice clamping his massive erection to his hip.

"I need you soft for this," says Jake, grinning at you. He pokes your dick, happily, which does not help matters.

You look around at the environment, and sigh, tragically. Shouldn't be hard to get turned off. "Alright. Get me set up and I'll work on it."

Judging by the wild array of equipment he’s got prepped for you… the setup might take a while. You decide to spark up some mental tit-for-tat as you look around the room. You're getting really used to these weird mental conversations. You like them. It's way faster and more efficient than straight up talking.

You’re pretty sure you’re on the set of that old 1930s Frankenstein movie. It's a basic old school mad scientist laboratory: stone walls, old bookshelves covered in test tubes and spiderwebs, random Spencer's Gifts-esque plasma globe decorations around, lotsa scary lookin' chains and hooks hanging from the walls, and it all probably takes place inside the repurposed watchtower of some ancient European castle. Everything, besides you, Jake, and the wild array of tools he has on a wheeled table near your hip, is in black and white.

The first thing Jake does is coax you to sit up a little so he can slide a pillow underneath your head. You lay back down when he’s got it situated, and it’s much more comfortable than lying on a hard table. Aww. That was… uncharacteristically considerate of him.

"Shut your eyes for me," he says, and you do. You feel cold steel around your dick and you immediately wince and try to curl up, but Jake presses down on your hip and forces you to stay put. You recognize what it is as soon as all the bars snap closed around you-- it's a chastity cage. It was smart of him to tell you to close your eyes; you would have gotten an instant boner just from looking at the thing. 

You hear the lock on it click, and you open your eyes. Jake pulls back and turns to the tool table. You take a moment to examine your dick, sitting up a little and fondling yourself. It's a pretty basic cage, long curved steel fitted perfectly to your soft shaft, a lock at the top that only Jake has the key for. You rub your thumb against your sensitive tip, between the two bars keeping your head in. Arousal starts to build up in your thighs, and you watch your dick get all flushed and thick, but the bars of the cage do their job and lock you tight. The sore pain of your erection trying to bust outta dick jail turns turns you on even more. Well, so far, this is a 10/10 fantasy.

Jake's been putting on black rubber gloves, the kind that go halfway up his forearms. It adds a special something to his whole costume. "Lay back down, please," he says, clinically, and snaps the edge of his gloves. _Nice._

You follow orders. He reaches under the operating table and grabs a long spreader bar. You automatically open your legs for him. He puts it on you, the metal rings locking firmly around each ankle. It’s a pretty wide one, but nothing horrendously uncomfortable. It’s just something to hold you in place.

He stands on his tip toes to reach a scary lookin’ meat hook dangling on a chain above him. He yanks it down, lowering it so it’s level with his chest. He has you bend your knees, then helps you roll back and lift your legs up so the spreader bar slots into the curve of the hook. You have no real leverage to swing your legs against the chain; you’re pretty much stuck in this ‘asshole exposed’ position. You feel like you’re going to the gynecologist.

There’s a couple metal cuffs attached to the table, positioned conveniently to clamp your hands down. Jake has you slide your arms into them, then locks them down tight. Your wrists and forearms are now strapped to the table.

Finally, he grabs a ball gag from the tool table. You open your mouth so he can put it on you. You give it a chomp once he’s got it fastened around your head. The gag has a fair amount of squish to it. It’s like you're chewing on a dog toy.

| 

You have weird fantasies, dude.  
Might i remind you that you have THREE monsterfucking scenes in your folder!!?? THREE!!!!  
Excuse you. It's *my* glass house. I can throw all the stones I want.  
So can we talk about why you like this?  
I ask because you want my boner to disappear and there's no way in hell that the answer will be arousing.  
Roger dodger!  
Its because i have an interest in the body and its innards. Animals and humans.  
Presto. Boner vanished.  
Blah blah i get it!!! You think my hobbies are disgusting!!! WELL TOO FUCKING BAD.  
I know youve been going on about how im apparently two different people.  
Which is bullcrap and hooey. But even if youre correct i am certain that this interest would not dissipate if my djinn aptitude was taken from me.  
I think your fascination with mortality will, at the very least, vanish. But I think your skull/bones obsession will last.  
I don't get why you like that stuff so much. Dave's got a similar thing and he keeps it on the DL around me.  
Although his is way less creepy. He likes dead birds.  
You like... dead people. Why?  
Theyre ultra neat!  
I especially love skeletons and skulls and old school dissections and taxidermy. Hobbies to perform past the point of death.  
I enjoy seeing what your insides look like after youve gone on all the adventures your life had for you. What sweet stories can be gleaned through your bones? What RIVETING GOSSIP does your skull have to tell me? How will you look in my trophy collection once ive cleaned you?  
But all that doesnt mean i cant have fun with the living.  
I want to see how your body reacts to my touch!  
I want to see how youre different than the others or how youre the same or how your character changes the physical reactions you try to suppress.  
I want to guess what cool things youve been up to based on what you do physically.  
Very scientific of you.  
YES! BIG HONKING SURPRISE! HUGE TWIST! English has got a WHOLE BOOTFULL of knowledge about muscles and nerves and all sorts of funny sciencey shit!  
Why would I doubt that?  
You think im an imbecile.  
For the record, I'm starting to think you're not dumb at all. Not in the traditional way. The D&D intelligence way.  
Instead, I think you're unwise and selfish, which is its own form of idiocy.  
Like all that stuff you just talked about? You let it get in the way of basic decency.  
You prod at my mind and sift through my memories and hobbies and disposition, crossing my unstated privacy boundaries under the guise I 'want it,' to entertain yourself until I eventually croak from your seizure inducing sex acts.  
You DO want it though.  
I mean, yeah, but it's the sort of shit we should discuss beforehand and have safe words for.  
Which admittedly, I haven't really been bringing up at all, because I'm self destructive like that and also secretly into your wild, uncontrolled masculine gusto.  
Whats a safe word?  
That's the saddest goddamn question I've ever heard.  
Anyway, look. Here's my thesis. You're obsessed with death, even as a human, and being possessed by your qareen lets you stifle your humanity and inborn restraints enough to actively kill and get what you want.  
Although you can't, like, outright murder someone. Or even outright hurt them. You've got barely enough morals to function. Which is why I'm convinced that splitting you from your jinni will vastly improve your ethics.  
Release the river of morality that's been dammed up, as it were.  
I DONT have a dammed moral code!!! I dont know what you think i am but IM NOT A VILLAIN!!!  
Yeah, yeah, just go ahead and shock me already.  
  
---|---  
  
He holds up a violet wand: a plain, clear tube flowing with a purple cloudy agitation. Your dick strains against the cage. Despite the wild array of sexual boy scout merit badges you possess, you've never actually had this done to you. You're pretty damn hyped. Jake looks just as excited.

Wait, fuck, before you start...  
Yes?  
You're really hot in that outfit. Like my dick is threatening to break these cuffs just lookin' at ya.

He blushes. Actually honest-to-god blushes. He says, out loud, "Oh, well, thank you!" and then brings the violet wand down right over your nipple.

It feels like someone is pinching and twisting you, as hard as humanly possible. You jolt, make a 'mmph' noise around your gag. He doesn’t linger for long, moving quickly to your other nipple and then zapping it in the same way. You jolt again— less from arousal and more from the shock of sudden pain.

He trails the wand down your ribcage, and you squirm and spasm from the line of pain it leaves. You see the point of all the restraints-- you'd be spasming off the table if nothing kept you in place. You would also be screeching at the top of your lungs, which wouldn't be pleasant for anyone involved.

Your body tries to slam your legs together once he touches the wand to the sensitive line of your hip. You feel your dick tense, feel precome bead at the tip. Jake’s watching you like he wants to devour you whole. 

He taps your balls with it. You scream into your gag as the pain of electricity, the restraints, and disallowed arousal all combine into something wonderful. You take your ‘weird fantasies’ insult back. Jake has the _best_ fantasies.

| 

I love watching you move like this.  
Youve got such a stick up your ass all the time its nice to watch you let go.  
Right. "Let go." Sure.  
Shhhhh you have no need to be so restrained here.  
...  
I'm going to be vulnerable with you for a moment, and as you know, that is a very difficult thing for me to accomplish:  
Im all ears!  
I am having a hard time letting go.  
Fix it.  
  
---|---  
  
Your heart hammers with the adrenaline required to actually _ask_ for something. Jake pauses, blinking at you, holding the violet wand in front of him. When he registers what you said, his mouth slowly splits into a mischievous, dark grin. It's a hot look on him. It kind of reminds you of that animated shadowy-smile shot in Peter Pan that gave you a childhood Gay Awakening. You're relieved he likes the idea.

He turns back to the tool table to set the violet wand down. He exchanges it for a bunch of sticky metal nodes hooked up to a wild array of colorful wires, which get placed on your skin. He presses small discs into the lines of your hips, the back of your legs, your ass, and your perineum. Once he's done, he plucks up a remote with a small dial, one that all the wires hook into. He turns it on.

You are hit with a wave of pleasant vibration. The nodes are generating a feeling halfway between your legs falling asleep and your dick getting ASMR tinglies. It's almost relaxing, like an erotic massage.

Nice. That's nice. It's like I'm in a hot tub full of static electricity.  
Ok so you can still think. Ill turn it up.

He fucking _cranks_ the dial to the right. You're screaming before the pain even hits you.

How about now?  
.......  
Wonderful.  
Now im going to insert one of my dexterous digits. Its all slick and lubed up for you.  
There we go. Nice and tight.  
Can you feel that?  
Dirk?  
I know things must be quite intense on your end but its rude not to answer the doctors questions!  
No.  
No what?  
I can't feel it.  
Ill up it to three!  
How about now?  
Nothing.  
Not even when i do......... this?  
Hmm?  
Dirk?  
Diiiiiiiirrrrkkk??  
Nothing.  
Okie dokie lets take a little break while i figure out how to make it REALLY GOOD.

| 

Your vision flickers in and out. You can't hear your own voice. Every muscle in your body feels like it's on fire, like your flesh is melting off and your insides are made of lava. You are consumed in your entirety by boiling heat.

You must be spasming like an electrocuted cartoon character, but you can't tell what the hell your body is doing. You can only feel the never-ending, hot vibrations of literal lightning burning through your nerves. Oddly, the feeling is tangential to orgasm. It's like you're trapped in the most intense part of it, with no hope of a comedown. You wonder if you're just, fuckin', exploding cum everywhere.

Jake’s eyes never leave your body. You can’t feel it at all, but in your moments of clarity, you can see he’s clinically finger-fucking you. He will also, on occasion, play with himself through his shorts. You're actually really impressed he's managing to restrain himself. He's been obsidian-hard for the entire duration of this fantasy, and that's a long time to be erect without going to halfsies when not being actively stimulated. He looks like he's a hair-trigger away from blowing his load, and he's been in that state for a solid fifteen minutes.

Your body doesn't adjust, but the longer you're trapped in this hellish painscape the more your mind is able to cherrypick certain sensations to focus on. Honestly, you love what's going on with your junk right now. He must have stuck a node right over your prostate, because it feels like someone's physically removed it and is currently fisting it into submission like they're pounding pizza dough. It's so unbelievably intense, far past your tolerance or limit. But you don't want him to stop.

You want to see how much you can take. If Jake's going to push you as far as you can go, and it's a dream, then what's the harm? You probably shouldn't encourage Jake's extreme nature, but... you're tempted.   
  
---|---  
  
The electricity shuts off, and you collapse against the table. You feel like you just came out of an intense session of jinn-seizures. Your muscles are worn out and stiff, your head pounds, your heart is hammering at about 140 beats per minute, tears and spit roll down your face. Your dick hurts in both the way that you're painfully turned on and in the way that a cage is literally constraining said arousal.

Your cock, balls, and ass feel very... wet. You wouldn't be surprised if this turned into some kind of watersports fantasy. You'd be embarrassed if you weren't 110% certain that Jake is totally the type of guy who's into watching you uncontrollably piss yourself. You manage to roll your eyes back into your head to take a look. 

There's a clear sheen of liquid all over your groin. Judging from the texture, the way it sticks to you, it's probably all precome and lube. You haven’t orgasmed yet. He's been milking you. The shiver that courses through all your nerves has nothing to do with electricity. _Fuck yes._

Jake hooks even more nodes to you, two on your chest, two on your temples. Your body is shaking as he applies them, and your breath comes out in wheezes. Your muscles are so worn out from the electricity that it’s becoming a struggle to breathe.

He plucks up the violet wand again, and grins. He reaches for the remote on the table, and cranks it all the way up to 11.

Somehow, it’s even more intense than before. 

The made-of-lava feeling returns with a flash. You feel like you’re screaming at the top of your lungs but you can’t hear anything. Your vision was spotty before, but now it’s fuckin’ _gone._ Your eyes are open but you can’t see shit. You feel like you're falling apart, and the only thing holding you together are the metal clamps and cage.

You are lost in fire, cleansed in electricity. You feel like you’ve entered a cyclical chain of neverending orgasm. You are torn between never wanting this to end and wanting it to end _this instant._

| 

Hey. Tone it down a little.  
I'm not one to deny myself the pleasures of a good shock to the circuits, but you're going too far.  
No im not! Its just a dream its not real. Theres no such thing as too far!  
He wants it.  
Care to weigh in on that, Dirk?  
I.  
I want it.  
Now THATS one slammin answer!  
Alright, fine. Don't come crying to me when you emerge from this dream with an inexplicable fear of thunderstorms.  
  
---|---  
  
Jake begins fucking you with the wand. And it cuts through the screaming vibration of your body, piercing through you like a sword. It feels like he’s fucking your soul, like he’s reached down and grabbed your heart and is burning it. You probably came a zillion times by now. There’s no way you haven’t pissed yourself at this point. He’s going to drain you of all you have and you’re going to enjoy every minute of it.

| 

Holy FUCK youre devilishly attractive.  
I am very close to making a mess of my shorts.  
How far can I push you?  
Dirk?  
Do you understand me?  
Oh hold on a tic.  
  
The electricity and sensation shuts off, and you are lost in darkness for a moment. You are brought out of it by Jake gently papping your face.

You cannot focus on him. You can barely breathe. You are so tired and worn that you want to sleep for hours and hours on end. You have passed your limit. If this were happening in real life, you have no doubt that you'd require hospitalization. Any more of this and you're certain you'll die.

He says something, and you will yourself to keep your eyes open, to focus. He’s actually _straddling_ you, like full-on, legs around your waist, peering into your vision like a weirdo. He’s panting like a dog in heat, still hard as ever. He’s holding something. He clicks the side of it and a small arc of electricity buzzes to life. Wait. Is that a taser? Like a literal taser?

“How far can I push you?” he repeats, violently breathing through his mouth. The taser hums like a bug zapper.

[Don’t tase me bro. I can’t take any more.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/38572256)

| 

[A little further.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/38572274)

| 

[JUST FUCK ME UP.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/38572349)  
  
---|---|---


	55. YOU'RE JUMPING LIKE A REAL LIVE WIRE

Jake tosses the taser aside, and it clatters to the floor. You wheeze around your gag, shiver uncontrollably in your restraints. He sits up on his knees, shoves his shorts down just enough to expose himself. He grips his cock, his eyes half lidded and lustful. You watch him masturbate to the sight of you. 

He comes in short order, and he specifically aims it so he gives you one hell of a facial. You are at least coherent enough to shut your lids and avoid getting come in your eye. The act of being used like this is wonderfully degrading, you love the feel of his warmth oozing down your cheeks.

You listen to him breathe, harsh and recovering. When he’s ready, he leans down, wipes his come away from your saliva-covered gag, and kisses your bottom lip. Like a ‘thank you.’ It’s sweet of him.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)


	56. BLINDED BY ROMANCE, BLINDED BY SCIENCE

Jake sits up and grinds his cock hard against your stomach. His spandexy shorts feel good on your worn body. As he does so, he reaches behind him and tasers you right in the goddamn nuts.

A couple things happen in quick succession:

1\. Jake comes. He looks you dead in the eye, picture perfect O-face staring down at you, and you feel the delicious warmth of him on your stomach.

2\. You have the best orgasm in your entire life. The taser does a magic _something_ to your junk and every muscle lights up in a confused pain-pleasure mambo. It’s like you’ve blasted off into heaven.

3\. Your heart stops and you fucking die from cardiac arrest, you absolute idiot.

Dirk. You are a buffoon.  
Don't kink-shame me bro.  
In all honesty, I thought I could take it.  
It was clear to any outside party that you couldn't take any more.  
Well that was a fucked up accident! Sure glad its nobodys fault at all!  
...  
What?

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)


	57. YOUR CONDITION IS CRITICALLY GRAVE

Jake brings the taser straight down, and slams it into your chest, right over your heart. The electric shock feels like you're getting bludgeoned by a cannonball. You cannot breathe, you cannot feel anything but heat, your muscles seize as you are sent into death throes. Your heart flatlines.

Your last moments are spent witnessing literally the hottest thing you've ever seen: Jake comes in his shorts without being touched. He watches you spasm, makes a strangled, aroused noise, and his balls visibly pull in. The silhouette of his shaft expands and contracts, and he pumps out semen into his compression shorts. A dark, wet, spot grows on the fabric as his come soaks through, and there's so much of it and it's so compacted in one place that it actually starts trickling down the outside, dripping white down the bulge in his shorts. Holy shit, this is so worth superficially killing yourself for. You're going to fap to this memory for _years._

Dirk.  
Hmm?  
I am aware that you are a moron, but even I cannot believe that you are so idiotic that you actively requested English to reverse defibrilate you.  
I got caught up in the experience. Allow me my one dumb fratboy decision, ok?  
IM SORRRRYYYYYY!!!!  
IM REALLY SORRY!!!!!!!  
IM REALLY REALLY REALLY SORRY i didnt mean to i was in the heat of the moment!!!!  
You two are meant for each other.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)


	58. USED AND ABUSED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _rape fantasy, humiliation, insults/slurs, crying, clothed footjobs, slapping/hitting, DARK & HEAVY CONTENT_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - DIRK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)

You’re sitting at your breakfast bar, for some fucking reason. Fully clothed and everything. Jake sits on the stool next to you, wringing his hands. Judging from the window on your living room wall, it’s nighttime. Your lights are all on. You have a mug of herbal tea cupped between your palms. You take a sip. It’s Tension Tamer Tea. Jake isn’t drinking his.

“Um,” he says, nervous. His voice is quivering. “I don’t want to do this one.”

You’re bummed he’s not hyped about it. You’re bummed he’s not hyped about it because that means that you’re going to have to actually talk to him about it; and communication ruins the fantasy for you. You want some no-safe-word extreme shit, dammit, but you also don’t want him to cross some unspoken limits of yours. Limits that Jake ‘literally seizured someone to death’ English might cross unknowingly. You draw a circle around your mug with your finger. Fuck your AR for not prepping Jake on this. Fuck you too, buddy.

“C’mon, if anybody can do it, it’s you,” you say, sighing. “You’ve got a unique look at my psyche and know how to cut it. You can drive an insult like a champ, sans the old timey verbiage. Besides, you seem keyed up for domination and control.”

“It’s the way you want me to go about the whole thing. It sounds like…” his voice gets really quiet here, an unusual level of shy. He can’t look at you. “… like rape.”

Why’s he so concerned about this now? His mind control shtick could have turned into dubcon central at literally any point in time. You suppose it’s the explicit pain that’s freaking him out, defining it up front, as opposed to pain as an unintended consequence. The latter he can shrug off and ignore. This? He has to intend to cause it.

You roll your eyes. “No, dude. You’re not gonna rape me. It’s playing pretend. We were talking about something similar when you were chasing me around my apartment. It’s like that, but with more insults and less fear of death.” 

He doesn’t answer. You reach over and rest a hand on his shoulder, continue trying to convince him. “This is one of my darkest fantasies, okay? It’s so dark that I absolutely wouldn’t have ever brought it up with you if my AR didn’t so graciously beam a list of kink warning tags direct to your goddamn thinkpan. So like, trust me, I’m into it.”

Jake takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He jerks his head to you, narrowing his eyes.

“Okay. But if you say ‘stop,’” says Jake. “I’m going to stop.”

“Fine,” you say, disappointed. Whatever, you can compromise. You let go of your mug, swivel towards him on the stool. “So, do you want to ease into it, or-”

Jake just fucking slaps you. You don’t see it coming at all. Mid-sentence, you hear the crack of skin on skin, _feel_ the crack of skin on skin, and you nearly tip backwards off the stool with the hurt and force. He catches you by the collar of your shirt, yanks your chin back, then slaps you the other way. He doesn’t hold back.

"Like that?" Jake asks, innocently.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby,” you slur out, head reeling, vision spinning. “That’s what I want.”

His grip tightens, and he hesitates. You force your eyes to focus on him. He’s got this serious look on his face, like he’s not sure what to make of you.

"Why do you enjoy this?" he asks, but this time it's less innocent. It's got the dark notes of accusation, which you crave more of. "Did somebody hurt you?"

"Nobody hurt me," you say, and your voice is whiny, like you're begging. "I'm just a sick fuck who deserves it, come on."

He pushes you back, and you make no effort to resist. The stool beneath you topples to the floor, and you would have followed if he didn’t have such a firm grip on your shirt. He kicks the stool away. It clatters harsh and loud against the tile. Your balance is totally whacked out from the slapping, so it’s easy for him to throw you to the ground. 

You land on your ass with an ungraceful grunt, and just as you situate yourself so you’re sitting up, Jake gets his bare foot between your spread legs. He presses his sole against your groin, and it fits perfectly against the curve of your cock. You didn’t notice you were so hard already. He’s not putting his full weight on you or anything, but the zipper of your jeans pressing into your dick stings like a bunch of needles. You toss your head back and whine.

“You really do love this…” says Jake, his voice a little shaky. He takes a deep breath. “You're such a whore.”

He increases the weight on you, pressing into your dick to a point that you’re frightened the little guy won’t make it out of this. You shove the side of your hand into your mouth and bite down, to try and divert the pain. Jake has a patient smile on his face, blinking at you.

“This whole concept is fucked to the nines. It’s dirty,” he says, and grinds the ball of his foot into your dick, like he’s putting out a cigarette. Your vision goes black and spotty and you scream into your hand. “What’s wrong with you? Are you such a loose moralled harlot that you can only get your rocks off on being bruised and battered? Do you think yourself so worthless that you want to be treated like a feral dog?”

Fuck, that’s good. You knew he’d be good, but that’s the heart of it. You try so hard, but you’re so easy to read, in the end. Fear, shame, and throbbing arousal cut through the pain. You choke out a sob.

He removes his foot, and you go light-headed with relief. He stares down at you, expectantly. Your hands are shaking as you unbutton your jeans, undo your fly. You figure he wants your dick exposed so he can continue the torture, but just as you’re reaching into your boxers to dig it out, he kicks you in the face.

It’s a full fuckin’ stomp. He goes easy on you— it’d break your nose if he put any real effort into it. Still, the back of your head bounces against the wall behind you, and you have a few seconds of wooziness as you try to recover, rubbing your forehead.

“If you want to be a worthless animal so much, you’d best act like one,” he says. You’ve noticed his voice is getting colder, more confident. “C’mon! Roll over so I can at least get some use out of you.”

You do so without question. You scoot away from the wall a little, brace yourself on all fours. Your arms shake violently. You love this. You love being diminished down to just a warm hole.

“When you tried to summon a demon to dance the bedroom tango with you, you had to expect this sort of thing, right?” says Jake, and you feel him kneel behind you. Anticipation rises in your throat. “Your masochistic tendencies were probably banking on being made into some beastly demon’s sex slave, right? Forcing you to have sex all day, becoming nothing but a doll…”

“Yeah, yes, yeah,” you choke out, your voice dry, caught up in the moment. Your dick is so starved for attention, you want him to hurt you again. You feel Jake’s thumbs hook around your waistband. “I want that. Jake.”

He yanks your pants and boxers down, violently, and you shiver at the exposure. “Who even summons a demon for sex, anyway? Dummy. You’re not using that big old brain of yours at all, you’ve really ruined your life just for the sake of getting your jollies off. You’re an inept fool.”

He leans over you, and grabs a fistful of your hair, and forces you down. He presses your cheek into your not-as-clean-as-it-should-be kitchen floor. You love this, you want to be used so bad.

Your ass is up, your chest is against the floor, you feel his shorts rub against your bare skin. He lets go of your hair to get his dick out, but you stay where you are. You like the submissive pose you’re in. You like being squished against the filthy tile.

“I want to hurt you so much you’ll never dream of this again,” says Jake, and you feel him spread you apart. It doesn’t register with you what he means until you feel his cock prodding your entrance.

Oh, god, he’s going to fuck you dry.

You don’t get time to mentally prepare yourself; he vice clamps your hips and pushes in. You’re so damn tight and stressed he might as well be ripping a new hole in you. The pain is white hot and grinding, like someone’s taking sand paper to your insides. Tears uncontrollably slide out of your face and blend with the dirty floor. You can’t help it; you scream.

“.انا اسف جدا يا حَبيبِي” Jake tells you, in a tone you can’t decipher. “.تقبرني”

You wonder what he said. Probably something so horrifically degrading he couldn’t think up an equivalent idiom in English. It’s hot, to try and imagine the filthy things he could have called you. Cum whore. Plaything. Slut. Waste. Needy. Worthless.

The pain only gets worse as he pushes further into you. It feels like he’s pounding a square peg into a round hole. Your ‘cool guy’ mask finally, finally shucks off, and you start fuckin’ ugly-crying. You claw at the tile and don’t bother to hide your loud and unhinged expressions. You probably look and sound disgusting.

Despite the mess you’re in, there is not a single part of you that wants to relax to try and ease the pain. You have jerked off to the thought of someone forcing themselves on you too many times to ruin the fun now. Jake English is so good at filling the role that you’re pretty sure you’re going to end up comatose at the end of this. Which is the dream, honestly.

He bottoms out, and he gives you no time to adjust to the sensation. He starts pistoning into you like he’s already close to orgasm and wants to get there as fast as possible. His movements are harsh— they have to be, your body is trying to force him out and he’s got to fight that. His dick grinds hot and dry against your prostate, and it is both incredibly painful and intensely pleasurable.

You grunt ungracefully with every thrust, and your uncontrolled noises remind you of the rape scene in Pulp Fiction. It's not really an association you want to make mid-fantasy, but you can't help it; your brain's all over the place.

Your body is very, very turned on. Half of your subconscious is ready to tip off the edge of a cliff and be consumed by the experience, and the other half is trying to reign you back in with stupid invasive thoughts. 'God, my dreamself is going to have 6,000 hemorrhoids after this' is probably the worst of them. You wish you'd shut down already.

At least you're hot and heated enough to be unaffected. Your dick feels full to bursting, to the point where you're tempted to start grinding yourself against the kitchen floor. But Jake’s holding your hips too tight for that kind of movement.

Either your body is adjusting or the liquids produced by you/Jake are making things easier, because you start feeling more pleasurable warmth than painful warmth. Your prostate is hit over and over, sending tight waves of heat through your body. It comes to a head very quickly, like someone is itching a spot you couldn’t reach.

Orgasm is forced from you. You haven't felt one like it, not really. The scratchy, burning ache consumes you totally, building up from your thighs and erupting through you with a painful heat. You cry out, and the comedown hits you like a shot of goddamn morphine.

You feel the calming, heavy wave of subspace wash over your brain and body. It's been a long, long time since you've been here. It is a relief, the penultimate experience of this whole scene, your body shutting down to cope with it all. It's exactly what you wanted. You'd be elated if you had the ability.

You go very, very still. To your unmitigated glee, every part of you gives up, going limp and lax and distant. You feel your chest rest against the cold tile, you feel your eyes roll back and go half-lidded, and you feel yourself jerk with each harsh thrust. Jake continues fucking your lifeless body, having an easier time of it now that you're not fighting. Distantly, you have the darkly hilarious thought that he's probably really into this.

You have no concept of time past this point, and you do not know when Jake finally finishes. You're trapped on some heavenly plane of nonexistence, for seconds or minutes or hours. You don't feel him stop, you don't feel much of anything, just the rhythmic slide of your body against the floor. It takes a long time to recognize that part of said sliding was him cleaning you and pulling your pants and boxers back on. In fact, you only recognize it when he's rolled you over and is dabbing your face with a paper towel, to wipe all the tears and snot and spit and dirt away. 

You're bummed it's over. You're still a loopy space case, and you don't want to come out of it. You want him to shove his fingers in you until he's hard again, you want to gag on his cock. You want to feel him come in you. It takes a huge amount of effort to grip his arm and dryly whisper, "More," to him.

You can see Jake's face just fine, him leaning over you with a wad of damp paper towel, but you can't seem to register the expression he's making. His answer is clear when he shakes his head 'no.'

You whimper, pathetically. He gets an arm underneath your back, then plucks you up to carry you to the couch. He adjusts you so he can lay next to you, and you both squish yourselves together in order to fit on the damn thing. Jake’s face is so close to you that you can feel his breath, and he’s staring at you in a way that looks like he’s about to cry. You feel your heart rate increase. You grit your teeth. 

"What's- what's the point of this," you stammer out, wincing at how lame your voice sounds. "Just end the scene already, I don't need aftercare in a fuckin' dream. I don't want to suffer through this- this- this sexual druggie adrenaline crash. End it. Somebody."

Jake’s voice is very soft. "I need to do this."

You slide a hand through your hair, to pull your bangs back and try to calm yourself. Your forehead is drenched with sweat. You feel more 'frazzled' than 'panicked,' but your tone sounds like you're seconds from having some kind of attack. "No, you don't! You don't even like aftercare!"

Jake responds with the same harsh, messed up voice. "Maybe it's not about _you,_ Dirk!"

It stings much more than it would if you were in the right state of mind. You're so selfish. You crumple in on yourself, and put your hands over your face to hide your expression, and whisper out, "Fuck. Fuck, I'm an idiot, of course you need this, I made you do something you didn't want to do. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Jake hugs you, and you lower your hands in favor of pressing your face fully into his chest. The smell of smoke and laundered cotton is calming, like incense. "No, no, you got it all turnways," he says, forcing his volume quieter. "I liked it fine. I just... I wish I didn't."

You take a deep, watery breath, breathe in his shirt. You return his hug, finally. You wait for him to explain.

"I like your body going all loose and floppy from me overwhelming your senses," he says, stroking your hair. "But I was so certain I only liked the 'shower you with pleasure' kind of overwhelming. Hurting you so much it causes you to blast into space shouldn't have given me the vapors. I feel really horrible about enjoying your pain."

You've got no patience for his bullshit at the moment. It'd be one thing if this was the first time he'd ever tried playing his hand at 'forced sex,' but the guy has, technically, forced you into sex. You loved it, obviously, but there's still an ethical dilemma he's not acknowledging. 

"Jake," you say, as flat as you can manage. You pull back to look at him. "You've given me at least 20 seizures at this point, ranging from minor to major, which force me into a sexual dreamscape that I cannot nor desire to escape from unless I pull off some weird mental gymnastics, and _now_ you choose to take a moral stance against it?"

"That's different!" he says, offended. "You enjoy those!"

"I enjoy _this!"_ you snap. "What's the difference? In fact, I'd argue that goddamn rape play is better! At least that kind of shit is centered in real life! With safe words and safety nets and 911 on speed dial and no jinn mind control shit! At least I know my feelings are my own!"

"Stop yelling!" he yells. "Stop it! I don't feel good! Can't we just fucking snuggle?"

"Why can't you recognize that intent has nothing to do with whether you actually hurt someone or not?" you continue, on a roll. "Making someone feel good as you kill them doesn't erase the fact that you're killing them! You're afraid of yourself for enjoying intended pain? That's the wrong fucking attitude. You should be _even more_ afraid of yourself for enjoying _unintended_ pain!"

He grabs your shirt collar, like he's trying to hold you still for a punch. You get the sense he's going to hurl you off the couch, so you jerk to attention and wrap your hands tight around his neck. You squeeze just a little, as a warning.

You stare each other down. A Mexican standoff. Neither of you do anything. Jake's eyes are wild. Your breaths come haggard. Seconds pass, and your gazes don't soften, but they mutually grow desperate. Tension grows heavier and heavier, weighing down the air between you. Jake's lashes lower first, seceding to you, and you meet him in the middle with a passionate kiss.

He rolls onto his back, so you're laying on top of him. He holds you so tight. You push the kiss into a very sloppy, open mouthed, tongues and moaning and groaning and sighing type of thing. You stop threatening to choke him, instead holding his cheeks so you can deepen the kiss further and further. You are both shivering all over, and it's healing to know your body isn't the only one with the shakes.

It's been long enough that you're hard again. You grind your hips against his, because honestly, aftercare is best when there's more sex involved. It distracts you from the feelings.

Your ass is too fuckin' ravaged to be able to take him, but you want penetration, so you end up topping him. You get his shorts off, but leave your own pants and boxers on in a cathartic role reversal. You fuck him in missionary on your couch, with lube this time.

You don't stop kissing him.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)


	59. OKAY, NOW WE'RE REALLY SHOWING UP ROSE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _monster fucking, multiple/detached hands, fisting, oversized penetration, micro/macro, uhhh heights(?), and a creepy eye background_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - DIRK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)
> 
> Monsterfucking 2? What kind of monster would you like?   
>  Up to you. Pick something in your folklore narrative.   
>  What about a dead guy who is cut in half down the middle and hops around on one leg?   
>  What the hell? What makes you think I want to get fucked by that?   
>  I dont know i cant figure out why you like this stuff! What are you expecting?   
>  How about something like those old school Biblical angels? Like the eye covered wheels linked over the top of each other.   
>  Can you think of anything like that?   
>  Um...   
>  I remember talking to the goddesses above the clouds...   
>  I had to stand on the shoulders of giants to reach their council and listen to their whispers.   
>  They gossiped about the future and i muttered it back to the humans i followed.   
>  I miss them a little! They were all slaughtered.   
>  Although admittedly they had it coming. They were very rude if they caught you eavesdropping and pretty shit vis a vis womens emancipation and child murder.   
>  And it was so very long ago... even before my companion was born and we took each others face.   
>  But!   
>  I think i can imagine them clear enough to paint a picture for you.   
>  I'm not into women, but ok.

Before you floats a gigantic woman.

Well, half of a woman, anyway. Her form is cut elegantly in a curve along the lower part of her ribcage, giving the impression she is a sculpted bust plus arms. She is roughly a hundred times the size of you. You have to crane your neck to see her face. She’s wearing an ornate blue headscarf, one of those loose, useless Renaissance Virgin Mary-esque headscarves, which doesn’t cover anything but her eyes. Not like it matters, because her eyes seem to be everywhere but her face.

Her long, dark hair drapes down her back and over her bare breasts, and within the thick mass you see a thousand eyes looking at you. They move jagged and jarred, pupils shifting like you’re shaking a bag of those stick-on googly eyes. You are not very turned on by this. In fact, you think your dick might be actively retreating into your taint. You guess it’s your own damn fault for specifically requesting this kind of monster. But you’re in too deep to back out.

Her motions are accompanied by massive gusts of wind, some so strong they nearly bowl you over. She reaches down with giant hands, and cups you up in one. You collapse into her palm and try not to snap your neck at the g-forces applied as she lifts you to eye level. You take some comfort knowing you’re at least bigger than her handspan— you’re about the size of an action figure.

Something buzzes around her head, little white specks that remind you of flies. As you get closer, you realize they’re hands, detached from her like fuckin’ Rayman. They’re all human hands, fun sized just for you. A few of them fly over and start petting your hair back, carding their fingers through your bangs.

She holds you in front of her face. The eyes hiding in her hair rattle towards you, pupils expanding and contracting. You still can’t see the eyes on her face, a bunch of beadwork is dangling over her forehead. The beads shine and glimmer like stars, despite there being no light in this dreamscape to reflect off of. Her skin is so white it’s nearly blue, which you’re pretty sure is _not_ historically accurate and Jake just made it up because he’s a weird son of a bitch. 

She holds you comfortably tight. She sticks out her tongue, brings you forward, and licks your groin in a long, soft motion. Your heart races and you cling onto her thumb for dear life.

“Fuck, Jake, don’t eat me!” you stammer-yell, too panicked to appreciate the warmth on your dick.

She makes a silly kissy face, then obnoxiously smooches your torso as a reply. Her lips are stupidly plush. Yeah, definitely Jake in there.

She holds you further away from her mouth, where she can’t pop you in like a snack. Delicate, gentle hands --the many hands of a goddess-- caress and stroke your body. You shut your eyes and sigh into the thousand touches. They stroke your face, your hair, your neck, chest, hips, shaft, balls, and _fuck yeah, handjob,_ who even cares about the rest. Despite the jarring ‘femaleness’ factor and the disinterest that comes with it, it’s hard not to be aroused by some solid dick massaging. Her hands are so damn soft. She continues to cradle you, although she adjusts her grip so you’re basically lounging flat on an angled hand-shaped couch.

Your ass is clear for penetration, and you make a soft “nngh” noise when a slick finger enters you. You keep your eyes shut, preferring the darkness to having a staring contest with a billion fuckin’ hairballs. You focus on the feel of her finding your prostate, rubbing and pushing and making you get the tingles. You loop an arm around her giant pointer finger for something to hold on to.

One finger turns into two, then three, and she starts fucking you proper. The slick noises of penetration are wonderfully lewd, and you unabashedly moan with the warm sensation building up in you. She’s still giving you a handjob, and a full body massage, and you feel as cozy and content as a cat in the sun. Okay, you weren’t sure about it at first, but you’re gettin’ into this giant goddess thing now.

You’re so relaxed and lost in heat you don’t notice the fourth finger that slides in, but you _do_ notice her thumb bumping up against your rim on every thrust. You _especially_ notice when she tries to smash that thumb in, and you jerk with surprise and open your eyes. Her hand freezes inside you, and you prop yourself up on your elbows. A stray hand brushes back your bangs so you have a clear view of her.

“If you’re gonna fist me dude,” you say, narrowing your eyes at her forehead. “I had better not feel a single effeminate nail throughout this entire goddamn process.”

She— Jake— makes another kissy face at you. A hand drifts in front of your eyes, nails pointed outward like she wants you to kiss her knuckles. You take a moment to examine the manicure. They’re trimmed and filed to a suitably short level.

You’ve been fisted exactly once in your life. It’s more trouble than it’s worth, in your opinion: you have to know exactly when you’re going to do it and there’s a full day's worth of diet/cleaning you have to go through. While you’re something of a size queen, usually a dick will suffice instead of somebody’s entire wrist.

Of course, this is a dream. You’ve got elastic butthole powers and a colon so clean you could eat out of it. This _could_ feel amazing.

You lay back in her hand like you’re reclining on a fainting couch, and shut your eyes again. “Alright, big boy. Go ahead and wear me like a sock puppet.”

You take a couple deep breaths as the handjob/massage/assplay resumes. You will yourself to relax, absorbing yourself in the sensation, and her entire hand slips in easy. You feel her move inside you, curl her hand into a proper fist, and _damn_ that’s good. The size is perfect, hitting every good spot without resistance. The handjob gets slicker, your cock pumping out quite a bit of precome.

She starts fisting you. She keeps a steady rhythm, and it’s easy to fall into a trance with the constant motion and wet noise. You like feeling full, like you’re taken care of. And even if it’s semi-ironic, you enjoy feeling like a sock puppet.

You don’t notice that there’s a second hand working it’s way into you until _another_ thumb is prodding your rim in time with the rhythm. While it doesn’t hurt, the realization that you’ve got a fist and an extra four fingers inside you is so jarring it makes you clench down. The hands stop moving, to avoid hurting you.

“Dammit,” you hiss, and snap open your eyes. You sit up as much as you can, to glare at Jake again. You ignore your throbbing dick to try and communicate with him. “What are you trying to do to me, here?”

All the eyes in her hair blink simultaneously, in the way that Jake looks at you when he’s playing dumb. Then, she lifts her hand —her other, big hand— and wiggles her pointer finger at you.

Oh, shit. You’re not just gonna be a sock puppet. You’re gonna be a finger puppet too. You lay back again with as much dignity as you can muster, and then say, “Carry on.”

It doesn’t take long for her to get you relaxed enough. She pulls her small hands out, leaving you empty and gaping, but she quickly gets her large opposite hand in position. She pokes your dick, playfully, and you whine, craving for something to fill you again.

While you’re not certain if you’d be able to take two fists in real life, you’re absolutely _positive_ you couldn’t take one of these tree-trunk sized digits. But your asshole can apparently extend to anime-sized levels, because the tip of her finger slides right in. She penetrates you slow, steady, finally stopping at the first joint. You see the bulge in your stomach from her size, which would normally concern you, but it all feels _impossibly_ good.

It makes you feel content, weirdly. It’s a fullness you can’t recreate emotionally. She starts thrusting, gently, making sure not to hurt you. Two human-sized hands lace their fingers with yours, for support. You squeeze them and shut your eyes and let yourself be absorbed in the feeling of comfort.

You can’t take much: only a couple thrusts and you’re coming, spattering white along your stomach. It’s not a normal orgasm, it feels like there just wasn’t enough room for arousal so your body decided to come and get it over with. She’s still, for a while, letting you relax around her. With your eyes still shut, you feel yourself descend as she lowers you to the floor.

She pulls her finger out of you, soft as possible. You wince at the emptiness. You really don’t want to know what your asshole looks like right now.

She sets you down on the floor, so you’re lying on your side. She removes all contact. You finally open your eyes when you feel Jake poking your shoulder. You roll onto your back, sloppily, and stare up at his smiling face.

“Wow! You did really well! I thought for sure you’d freak out with the large lady fingers,” says Jake, happily. “You’re getting the hang of this dream business just fine! I don’t know why you were so hung up about reality vs. imagination before, you’ve got the gist of it now!”

“I still think this is all ‘real,’ based on perception, I simply understand that I can manipulate things based on arbitrary mechanics,” you say, rubbing your face and willing yourself back together. “And at least I’m aware of what’s possible in real life. Unlike you, who tries to blend the two into something deranged and bizarre.”

Jake frowns. You believe he’s thinking it over, until he says, quietly, “Um… I haven’t come yet…”

You roll your eyes and sigh. “C’mere, I’ll suck your dick.”

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)


	60. DREAM OF THE RED CHAMBER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _threesome, multiple orgasms, hairpulling, creampies, ridiculous amounts of cum, altered mental states (420 BLAZE IT)_
> 
> _note: for those of you using screen readers, the reader will repeat large swaths of text two to four times in a row for like half of this chapter and it will be INCREDIBLY ANNOYING. i am so sorry. blame ao3 for parsing out all ARIA/accessibility tags._
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - AR](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776)

Your autoresponder claps his hands, rubs them together, and says, “Alright. Threesome. Let’s do this.”

His voice echoes in the utterly empty surroundings. You and Jake both stare at him, blankly.

"Honestly! Where's your creativity, Mr. AI!" says Jake, crossing his arms. "I don't want to smash our wieners together in a plain white box! I want a nice setting! I want passion! I want an adventure!"

“Picky, picky,” tuts your autoresponder, and with a sudden pop, the setting explodes into your bedroom.

Well… _almost_ your bedroom. It’s the same layout, but there’s a palette swap and a couple disconcerting decor changes. Your walls are now a bright red color, your duvet and sheets match it perfectly, said bed is actually made for once, all your shit is organized and put away instead of discarded on the floor, and the carpet is black like the void. It’s all very Hot Topic mail order catalog.

“Welcome to my room,” says your autoresponder, spreading out his arms.

“Edgy,” you grunt.

Jake flops down on the bed, scooting up so he's lying flat on his back and totally taking over the mattress. He straightens his tshirt —you're all wearing the same outfits that you are in the real world— then peers up at the both of you. He appears invested in the scene now.

Your autoresponder sits down next to Jake, and you pointedly sit on the opposite side of the bed. Your autoresponder removes Jake’s glasses and sets them aside. He runs a loving hand along Jake's jawline, and Jake smiles, and eugh, your face looks so soft and weak and, god, you can't watch this.

"Look, I _can’t_ have a threesome," you say, glaring at your doppelgänger. "If I so much as glance at your fugly face while I’m getting dicked down, my boner will deflate in a hot second."

"What, you don't want to hate-fuck me? And you think that once you have your boner it won't be maintained out of rage? Regardless, it matters not. I am very aware of this fact, and I have contingency plans. Such as:" Your autoresponder pulls a square flower vape from his pocket. It's got a Arch Linux logo stenciled on the top panel, which is probably the worst vape decoration you've ever seen in your life.

"Getting blazed won't stop my intense self-hatred," you say, raising an eyebrow. You're fairly straight-edge vis a vis recreational drugs, not due to restraint or morality, but because they don't have an effect on your mind when taken in reasonable doses. They make your body lazy or clumsy or horny, but do nothing to halt the frantic machinations of your constant inner monologue. If drugs don't make you chill out, then what's the point of them at all?

Your autoresponder takes a grinder out of his pocket, along with a Ziploc baggie holding a few cannabis flowers. Classy. "C'mon, huff enough of this High Quality Dream Weed and even _your_ markedly shitty mortal mind will fall to its temptations. Besides, English has never done it before."

"Seriously?" you say. Jake jolts up to a crosslegged position. Your autoresponder drops a flower in the grinder and twists it a bunch. "Aren't you like, over a thousand years old? Aren’t you permanently stuck in your mid-twenties? How'd you miss out on fucking _weed?"_

"No, I have, uh, totally taken a stick of muggle. Or, um, something like it, anyway. I think. Maybe." Jake says, his eye twitching. He gestures towards the vape. "Although definitely not with modern wizardry like that little box you’ve got there."

Your autoresponder opens the front panel of the vape, and taps all of the ground weed into the large bowl. It smells appropriately pungent. He shuts it, flips on the switch, and places the unneeded weed gear on the floor. It doesn’t take very long for the green LED light to come on, and your autoresponder places his lips on the mouthpiece and takes the first puff.

Guess you’re really doing this. You haven’t gotten high and had a threesome in an unventilated poorly decorated dimly lit room since you were twenty years old. That was peak college, honestly.

Your autoresponder passes the vape to you, once he’s inhaled enough. He holds his breath and lets the THC linger in his lungs. Instead of exhaling it like a normal person, he takes Jake’s chin in his hand, pulls him close, and kisses him open mouthed. He breathes into Jake. Thick white vapor pools out from between their lips and wafts up towards the ceiling. Jake’s lashes flutter.

It’s disgusting and trashy, but you want to do it too. You take a long drag from the vape, hold the gentle steam in your lungs for a second, and then pull Jake away from your autoresponder with a gentle tug on his chin. Jake looks so soft, his mouth parted for you. Your press your lips to his, make sure everything’s lined up right, and romantically mouthbreathe all those marijuana fumes into him. Jake twists it into full on frenching, jamming his tongue into you as you secondhand smoke him into stoner town. CPR has never been sexier.

The AR took another drag while you were busy, and you back off from Jake when he turns Jake’s chin towards him. You watch them kiss, watch the white smoke ooze like tentacles around their mouths, and take the vape from your autoresponder. Thus, the cycle of hotboxing continues. 

It’s another two rounds before you start feeling it, the slow, sticky-sweet time warp of a good high. It’s rare that you get to this point. You hyper-focus on the way Jake’s shirt feels under your hand, and you slide your grip down to the hem of his shirt. You entwine it between your fingers, unwrap them, take a drag, kiss him, let your autoresponder take his turn, rub your thumb against Jake’s hip and try to find the bone there. 

You’re not sure how many times you repeat the cycle, but Jake eventually pulls back. It takes him forever to gather his thoughts together. In the meantime, your autoresponder manages to turn the vape off and set it aside.

Jake spends like, five whole minutes rubbing his eyes before whining, "I feel funny..."

"No shit," both you and your autoresponder say.

He lifts his head up and blinks woozily at you. "Hey, erm, could you two... do me a solid?" he asks, his eyes glazed over with lust and haze. "Give each other a smooch? Please."

You can’t register the implications of that, so you’re leaning forward towards your autoresponder before you fully digest the request. 

Making out with yourself is eerily perfect. You are the exact same temperature, your lips are the same size, and you work in synchronized tandem to get the best mouthfeel from each other. Your inherent disgust only catches up with you when your autoresponder has his hands beneath your shirt and you're mirroring his touch.

"Fuck," you hiss, jerking away and pinching the bridge of your nose. Your autoresponder pulls his hands away. You squeeze your eyes shut and will yourself to get it together. "I don't like this."

"Are you scared to enjoy your own company?" asks Jake, petting your hair back. You glance up at him-- then glance down at the prominent bulge in his shorts. He doesn't seem to notice where your attentions lay. "What's so bad about falling in love with yourself?"

"Talk about a hypocritical question. I don't think _you_ even love yourself, dude," you say, trying hard not to be distracted by his boner. Gathering your thoughts is like trying to hold thirty limes without dropping any. "You just want to fuck yourself so you'll never have to be lonely."

Jake blinks at you, slowly. "What's the difference?"

You have no idea how to start addressing the question. You stare at him, mouth gaping, eyes narrowed in judgment, for way too long. Your autoresponder brings you out of it.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch. Let's share a body. Combine our perceptions," he says, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Neither of us are in the mood to fight each other."

You concur with this notion. You’re down with some mind-melding. The act of qareen possession is more like a mutually beneficial parasitic relationship as opposed to a weird masturbation ritual. You've gleaned it only works when your thoughts are in sync with his, which is rare as hell. But everything's so lazy and slow right now that the both of you can focus on a singular goal without butting heads: sex with Jake. When reduced down to your base needs and desires, you and your autoresponder are the same person.

You shift into each other, like nesting dolls. It does not matter which Dirk is the base, or which Dirk is the body, or even if there is such a distinction; you are both acting as one being. You meet in the center, kneeling on the bed in front of Jake.

"Aww," hums Jake, pouting. "I don't get two of you servicing me?"

"Hell no. I'm a power top," you say.

"I dunno, anything could happen," you say.

| 

"I dunno, anything could happen," you say.

"Hell no. I'm a power top," you say.  
  
---|---  
  
Jake blinks at the momentary split in you, a sensation that felt like you were talking with two mouths. The disconnect didn't bother you, not when you're high as balls. Hell, you could probably split into two while maintaining Oneness, that’s how high as balls you are.

You kiss him, to set the mood. Then, because Jake’s eyes are red and glazed over and he is clearly unable to efficiently undress you, you pull off your own shirt, then your jeans and boxers. Jake watches you with a dull interest, although his erection doesn’t dissipate.

You press your hands to his waist, try to fit your thumbs to the slight dip. You start necking him, because he looks delectable there. Your hands wander, slip underneath his clothes.

You pull off his shirt, toss it aside. You press kisses down his torso, spending an extra long time lavishing affection on those sweet tiddies. You basically motorboat his furry chest— you love how soft he is. 

You bend down and kiss along the bones of his hip. You play with the elastic band of his gym shorts, his tight boxer-briefs underneath, and you have him raise his ass up so you can pull them both off in one fell swoop.

| 

You bend down and kiss along the bones of his hip. You play with the elastic band of his gym shorts, his tight boxer-briefs underneath, and you have him raise his ass up so you can pull them both off in one fell swoop.

You pull off his shirt, toss it aside. You press kisses down his torso, spending an extra long time lavishing affection on those sweet tiddies. You basically motorboat his furry chest— you love how soft he is.   
  
---|---  
  
You help him get his legs all arranged to get his shorts fully off, et voilà, you’re both naked, erect, and on the bed. Jake blinks a solid twenty times in a row before shyly asking, “So, erm, hey freindos, can I get one of you on each end of me?”

You nod, heavy. You’re down for a juicy spitroast.

You try to get Jake into a kneeling, doggy-style like position so you can properly spitroast him, but he's too lethargic to keep himself up. He lays flat on his stomach, and you get between his spread legs. You adjust so you're in a comfortable spooning position, propped up on your arms over his waist. You move your hands so you don't have to touch your other body's gangly calves.

You try to get Jake into a kneeling, doggy-style like position so you can properly spitroast him, but he's too lethargic to keep himself up. You sit down, lean against your pillows and headboard, and spread your legs around him. He collapses into your lap, mouth at perfect dick-suckling height. He blinks softly at your cock, like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

| 

You try to get Jake into a kneeling, doggy-style like position so you can properly spitroast him, but he's too lethargic to keep himself up. You sit down, lean against your pillows and headboard, and spread your legs around him. He collapses into your lap, mouth at perfect dick-suckling height. He blinks softly at your cock, like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

You try to get Jake into a kneeling, doggy-style like position so you can properly spitroast him, but he's too lethargic to keep himself up. He lays flat on his stomach, and you get between his spread legs. You adjust so you're in a comfortable spooning position, propped up on your arms over his waist. You move your hands so you don't have to touch your other body's gangly calves.  
  
---|---  
  
You push into him, not having to worry about lube in the dream. He's all slicked up for you, and the weed relaxed him so you don't have to worry about causing pain. You thrust and grind against him, slow, your senses overtaken by the tight ring of heat around your dick.

Jake idly licks and kisses up your shaft. He gasps against you as your other body pushes inside him. His eyes fall shut, and his blowjob efforts markedly deteriorate as your other body fucks him. He gives up and rests his head against your thigh, face flushing.

| 

Jake idly licks and kisses up your shaft. He gasps against you as your other body pushes inside him. His eyes fall shut, and his blowjob efforts markedly deteriorate as your other body fucks him. He gives up and rests his head against your thigh, face flushing.

You push into him, not having to worry about lube in the dream. He's all slicked up for you, and the weed relaxed him so you don't have to worry about causing pain. You thrust and grind against him, slow, your senses overtaken by the tight ring of heat around your dick.  
  
This is unbelievably nice. "Open your mouth," your other body says. You watch yourself force Jake into a blowjob— you didn’t know you had it in you. Heat and tension builds up in your thighs as you listen to the slick sounds of your thrusting, focus on the feel of the firm grip Jake’s got on your dick. You try hard not to lose your rhythm in the high.

You want your dick sucked. "Open your mouth," you tell Jake. He does, lazily, and you grab a handful of his hair and guide his head over your cock. He takes you in all the way at your urging, deepthroating you without issue. You use the fistful of his black hair to pull and push him over your dick, as gently as you can manage. Jake doesn't resist your guidance at all. 

| 

You want your dick sucked. "Open your mouth," you tell Jake. He does, lazily, and you grab a handful of his hair and guide his head over your cock. He takes you in all the way at your urging, deepthroating you without issue. You use the fistful of his black hair to pull and push him over your dick, as gently as you can manage. Jake doesn't resist your guidance at all. 

This is unbelievably nice. "Open your mouth," your other body says. You watch yourself force Jake into a blowjob— you didn’t know you had it in you. Heat and tension builds up in your thighs as you listen to the slick sounds of your thrusting, focus on the feel of the firm grip Jake’s got on your dick. You try hard not to lose your rhythm in the high.  
  
It is not so bad, to watch yourself get off. You've got a vice clamp on his thick hair and you are forcing him to suck your dick as fast as you please. Jake seems like he's into it-- either the penetration or the deepthroating, because he begins humming and moaning around your other body. It's hot as hell, you want to hear more.

It is not so bad, to watch yourself fuck him. You look like you're making love to him, your eyes glazed over with pleasure and a drug addled high, lashes lowered so you can watch yourself get a blowjob. You move Jake along your cock faster. He hums and moans around you, and you watch your alternate self's pace increase. 

| 

It is not so bad, to watch yourself fuck him. You look like you're making love to him, your eyes glazed over with pleasure and a drug addled high, lashes lowered so you can watch yourself get a blowjob. You move Jake along your cock faster. He hums and moans around you, and you watch your alternate self's pace increase. 

It is not so bad, to watch yourself get off. You've got a vice clamp on his thick hair and you are forcing him to suck your dick as fast as you please. Jake seems like he's into it-- either the penetration or the deepthroating, because he begins humming and moaning around your other body. It's hot as hell, you want to hear more.  
  
The weed makes you feel as though you are swimming in sensation, the ebb and flow of sex consuming you from inside. You let it all come to head. Your thighs slap against Jake’s ass as you chase down a climax. You give him a warning, “’m coming,” before thrusting deep and emptying yourself out inside him. You give him everything you’ve got, staying inside him through all the aftershocks.

You focus on the cozy warmth of Jake’s mouth and throat, letting your head loll back with both an intense pleasure and relaxation. The loud sound of your other body’s thighs draw you out of it, and you jerk to attention just in time. “’m coming,” he says. You look away from your own O-face. You don’t want to know how ugly you are when you come. 

| 

You focus on the cozy warmth of Jake’s mouth and throat, letting your head loll back with both an intense pleasure and relaxation. The loud sound of your other body’s thighs draw you out of it, and you jerk to attention just in time. “’m coming,” he says. You look away from your own O-face. You don’t want to know how ugly you are when you come. 

The weed makes you feel as though you are swimming in sensation, the ebb and flow of sex consuming you from inside. You let it all come to head. Your thighs slap against Jake’s ass as you chase down a climax. You give him a warning, “’m coming,” before thrusting deep and emptying yourself out inside him. You give him everything you’ve got, staying inside him through all the aftershocks.  
  
“… Sloppy seconds?” you ask your other body, trying to sound smarmy. Your other body gently pushes Jake off his lap and nods at you, stoic as ever. You both swap seats like a game of sexy musical chairs. You have to physically lift Jake to get him between your legs. He’s still blazed as hell; he barely seems to recognize that he’s being moved into a new lap. He immediately presses his lips to your soft dick, and takes you into his mouth. Your other body grimaces. "Ugh," he says. "Ass to mouth, dude."

“… Sloppy seconds?” your other body asks you, panting and grinning. You nod at him, and position Jake so you can swap holes. You both scoot around the bed to assume the other’s place. You spoon Jake, prop yourself up around his waist. You’re hot and hormonal from getting your dick sucked, so you slide right in when you’re ready, nice and easy. Jake doesn’t even react to a new dick penetrating him. You watch him put your other body’s filthy-ass dick in his mouth. "Ugh," you say. "Ass to mouth, dude." 

| 

“… Sloppy seconds?” your other body asks you, panting and grinning. You nod at him, and position Jake so you can swap holes. You both scoot around the bed to assume the other’s place. You spoon Jake, prop yourself up around his waist. You’re hot and hormonal from getting your dick sucked, so you slide right in when you’re ready, nice and easy. Jake doesn’t even react to a new dick penetrating him. You watch him put your other body’s filthy-ass dick in his mouth. "Ugh," you say. "Ass to mouth, dude." 

“… Sloppy seconds?” you ask your other body, trying to sound smarmy. Your other body gently pushes Jake off his lap and nods at you, stoic as ever. You both swap seats like a game of sexy musical chairs. You have to physically lift Jake to get him between your legs. He’s still blazed as hell; he barely seems to recognize that he’s being moved into a new lap. He immediately presses his lips to your soft dick, and takes you into his mouth. Your other body grimaces. "Ugh," he says. "Ass to mouth, dude."  
  
You raise an eyebrow. "It's a dream, dumbass. Everything's squeaky clean." Your other body lowers his head, conceding. You focus on your own pleasure. Since you just came, you don't have him go right for the good stuff. You grab a fistful of Jake’s hair, pull him off your semi-soft dick, but keep him in the vicinity of it. Jake automatically begins sloppily kissing and mouthing at the damn thing. Despite getting hotboxed with a goddamn vape, Jake is _really_ fucking high. It’s kind of amazing.

He raises an eyebrow. "It's a dream, dumbass. Everything's squeaky clean." You suppose you have a point. You decide to focus on anal instead of banal arguments. You love how slick Jake is. Fucking him using your own come is hotter than it has any right to be. You’re already fairly aroused from the blowjob, and you know you could come pretty easily if you sped things up, but you figure you’ve got to last long enough for your other body to get another erection. You’re goin’ for sloppy fourths. 

| 

He raises an eyebrow. "It's a dream, dumbass. Everything's squeaky clean." You suppose you have a point. You decide to focus on anal instead of banal arguments. You love how slick Jake is. Fucking him using your own come is hotter than it has any right to be. You’re already fairly aroused from the blowjob, and you know you could come pretty easily if you sped things up, but you figure you’ve got to last long enough for your other body to get another erection. You’re goin’ for sloppy fourths. 

You raise an eyebrow. "It's a dream, dumbass. Everything's squeaky clean." Your other body lowers his head, conceding. You focus on your own pleasure. Since you just came, you don't have him go right for the good stuff. You grab a fistful of Jake’s hair, pull him off your semi-soft dick, but keep him in the vicinity of it. Jake automatically begins sloppily kissing and mouthing at the damn thing. Despite getting hotboxed with a goddamn vape, Jake is _really_ fucking high. It’s kind of amazing.  
  
It feels good, to get your dick sucked when you’re soft. It’s nice and warm and sweet, like a spa treatment. The high magnifies the relaxation you’re experiencing. You zone out, let your mind fade.

You thrust into Jake slow and steady, letting your eyes and head roll back as you edge yourself. The distortion of time helps a hell of a lot with it, you don’t feel antsy, like you _have_ to come or anything. Although your steady rhythm does eventually grow too much to bear. You glance at your other body, who is so fucking faded he’s just kind of vapidly staring at the ceiling instead of looking at Jake. You then glance at your other body’s dick, which is roughly 90% hard again. Good enough. You quickly increase the pace, and a long-overdue orgasm rises in your legs, coming to head in a satisfying way. You empty a second load in Jake’s ass, making sure not to pull out until you’re totally done. 

| 

You thrust into Jake slow and steady, letting your eyes and head roll back as you edge yourself. The distortion of time helps a hell of a lot with it, you don’t feel antsy, like you _have_ to come or anything. Although your steady rhythm does eventually grow too much to bear. You glance at your other body, who is so fucking faded he’s just kind of vapidly staring at the ceiling instead of looking at Jake. You then glance at your other body’s dick, which is roughly 90% hard again. Good enough. You quickly increase the pace, and a long-overdue orgasm rises in your legs, coming to head in a satisfying way. You empty a second load in Jake’s ass, making sure not to pull out until you’re totally done. 

It feels good, to get your dick sucked when you’re soft. It’s nice and warm and sweet, like a spa treatment. The high magnifies the relaxation you’re experiencing. You zone out, let your mind fade.  
  
“Swap spots?” says your other body, jerking you out of your weed-stupor. You nod, hefting up Jake to resume the position. You re-situate, moving around to spoon Jake as per usual, although your other body doesn’t follow his own instructions and gets distracted by the vape on the floor near the bed. He leans over to flick the switch, waiting for the green light to turn on. It doesn’t take long, you own a hella pricey vape. You back off of Jake to let your other body get beneath him.

“Swap spots?” you ask your other body, once you’re finished. Your other body nods, his facial expression snapping into your normal Strider stoicness. You get this excellent idea as you shift around on the bed: you want to get boned while simultaneously getting high as fuuuuuuuuuuck. Hell yeah. You grab the vape off the floor and turn it on. It doesn’t take long, you apparently own a pretty quality vape, and you help Jake up and get beneath him. You want to get fucked in missionary. 

| 

“Swap spots?” you ask your other body, once you’re finished. Your other body nods, his facial expression snapping into your normal Strider stoicness. You get this excellent idea as you shift around on the bed: you want to get boned while simultaneously getting high as fuuuuuuuuuuck. Hell yeah. You grab the vape off the floor and turn it on. It doesn’t take long, you apparently own a pretty quality vape, and you help Jake up and get beneath him. You want to get fucked in missionary. 

“Swap spots?” says your other body, jerking you out of your weed-stupor. You nod, hefting up Jake to resume the position. You re-situate, moving around to spoon Jake as per usual, although your other body doesn’t follow his own instructions and gets distracted by the vape on the floor near the bed. He leans over to flick the switch, waiting for the green light to turn on. It doesn’t take long, you own a hella pricey vape. You back off of Jake to let your other body get beneath him.  
  
Your other body isn’t doing anything with the vape, so while you wait for him and Jake to get themselves in order, you take the liberty of swiping it. You watch yourself and Jake get entangled with all the grace of a Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff comic. You take a couple tokes, figuring you wont get a chance to indulge later. Jake and your other body manage to get their marbles in order, and you set the vape down in order to go for a third round.

Jake props himself up on his elbows around you, and you kick your legs up around his back. You reach between you and help guide his cock to you. Jake must have come a while ago-- the head of his dick is covered in tacky semen, but he's still hard as ever. It gives you a thrill to be fucked by his sloppy seconds. Jake pushes into you, you sigh with a satisfying fullness. He’s cute like this; his eyes shut, chewing on his lip, vulnerable as hell. 

| 

Jake props himself up on his elbows around you, and you kick your legs up around his back. You reach between you and help guide his cock to you. Jake must have come a while ago-- the head of his dick is covered in tacky semen, but he's still hard as ever. It gives you a thrill to be fucked by his sloppy seconds. Jake pushes into you, you sigh with a satisfying fullness. He’s cute like this; his eyes shut, chewing on his lip, vulnerable as hell. 

Your other body isn’t doing anything with the vape, so while you wait for him and Jake to get themselves in order, you take the liberty of swiping it. You watch yourself and Jake get entangled with all the grace of a Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff comic. You take a couple tokes, figuring you wont get a chance to indulge later. Jake and your other body manage to get their marbles in order, and you set the vape down in order to go for a third round.  
  
You have to get up a little higher in order to mount Jake, but you manage. You push your other body’s legs out of the way so you can curl against Jake’s back. You slide inside Jake easier than anything. You give him a moment, although you’re certain he’s adjusted by now, then start rocking into him. It’ll take longer for you, the second time around. No need to rush.

JC’mere,” you murmur, just for Jake. You pat around for the vape on the bed, find it, and take a long draw. You hold it in your lungs, press your hand to Jake’s chin, and he leans in for a kiss. You exhale into him, the vapor curling white around his skin. Your other body begins fucking him, gently. Jake rocks back and forth above you with each thrust. 

| 

C’mere,” you murmur, just for Jake. You pat around for the vape on the bed, find it, and take a long draw. You hold it in your lungs, press your hand to Jake’s chin, and he leans in for a kiss. You exhale into him, the vapor curling white around his skin. Your other body begins fucking him, gently. Jake rocks back and forth above you with each thrust. 

You have to get up a little higher in order to mount Jake, but you manage. You push your other body’s legs out of the way so you can curl against Jake’s back. You slide inside Jake easier than anything. You give him a moment, although you’re certain he’s adjusted by now, then start rocking into him. It’ll take longer for you, the second time around. No need to rush.  
  
You shut your eyes, press your face to Jake’s shoulders, and enjoy the dual sensation of making love to him and smoking beneath him. It’s easier to appreciate your twin bodies with your eyes closed, feeling Jake’s cock in your ass while simultaneously fucking him. You hear Jake whisper to your other body. "This is fun," he whispers, slow and lethargic. "What's so bad about falling in love with your dark side?"

You don’t move at all, nor does Jake actively fuck you, but you don’t mind. You appreciate the fullness, being underneath him, the vibe of it all, and take your time hotboxing Jake. You eventually get tired of it, turn the vape off, set it aside, look into Jake’s eyes and stroke his hair back like a sap. "This is fun," he whispers, slow and lethargic. "What's so bad about falling in love with your dark side?" 

| 

You don’t move at all, nor does Jake actively fuck you, but you don’t mind. You appreciate the fullness, being underneath him, the vibe of it all, and take your time hotboxing Jake. You eventually get tired of it, turn the vape off, set it aside, look into Jake’s eyes and stroke his hair back like a sap. "This is fun," he whispers, slow and lethargic. "What's so bad about falling in love with your dark side?" 

You shut your eyes, press your face to Jake’s shoulders, and enjoy the dual sensation of making love to him and smoking beneath him. It’s easier to appreciate your twin bodies with your eyes closed, feeling Jake’s cock in your ass while simultaneously fucking him. You hear Jake whisper to your other body. "This is fun," he whispers, slow and lethargic. "What's so bad about falling in love with your dark side?"  
  
You're not sure which Dirk you are, if you can even make a distinction at this point. You're too fucking high for it to bother you. You've currently got both sets of memories stacked in your blazed brain and aware of what your other body is experiencing and thinking. But no matter which Dirk you are, the answer is the same.

You're not sure which Dirk you are, if you can even make a distinction at this point. You're too fucking high for it to bother you. You've currently got both sets of memories stacked in your blazed brain and aware of what your other body is experiencing and thinking. But no matter which Dirk you are, the answer is the same. 

| 

You're not sure which Dirk you are, if you can even make a distinction at this point. You're too fucking high for it to bother you. You've currently got both sets of memories stacked in your blazed brain and aware of what your other body is experiencing and thinking. But no matter which Dirk you are, the answer is the same. 

You're not sure which Dirk you are, if you can even make a distinction at this point. You're too fucking high for it to bother you. You've currently got both sets of memories stacked in your blazed brain and aware of what your other body is experiencing and thinking. But no matter which Dirk you are, the answer is the same.  
  
"I'd be a real monster if I fell in love with my dark side," you tell him. "I'd be abusive, manipulative, probably a sex offender, and constantly wear douchebaggy polo shirts with the collar popped because I think white polos are the sexiest shirts in existence... and that scares me. My tastes scare the shit out of me, Jake. Your corpse-eating gimmick is nothing compared to my hidden fashion preferences. I have to actively fight the desire to wear popped collars, Jake. And trucker hats, Jake. I love trucker hats, but they're so awful, I know they're awful. And spats, Jake, oh Jake, I fuckin’ love spats, but I can't wear them because I know deep in my heart that the moment I put them on over my Converse I turn evil. Do you know how hard that battle is to fight? I fight it every damn day."

"I'd be a real monster if I fell in love with my dark side," you tell him. "I'd be abusive, manipulative, probably a sex offender, and constantly wear douchebaggy polo shirts with the collar popped because I think white polos are the sexiest shirts in existence... and that scares me. My tastes scare the shit out of me, Jake. Your corpse-eating gimmick is nothing compared to my hidden fashion preferences. I have to actively fight the desire to wear popped collars, Jake. And trucker hats, Jake. I love trucker hats, but they're so awful, I know they're awful. And spats, Jake, oh Jake, I fuckin’ love spats, but I can't wear them because I know deep in my heart that the moment I put them on over my Converse I turn evil. Do you know how hard that battle is to fight? I fight it every damn day." 

| 

"I'd be a real monster if I fell in love with my dark side," you tell him. "I'd be abusive, manipulative, probably a sex offender, and constantly wear douchebaggy polo shirts with the collar popped because I think white polos are the sexiest shirts in existence... and that scares me. My tastes scare the shit out of me, Jake. Your corpse-eating gimmick is nothing compared to my hidden fashion preferences. I have to actively fight the desire to wear popped collars, Jake. And trucker hats, Jake. I love trucker hats, but they're so awful, I know they're awful. And spats, Jake, oh Jake, I fuckin’ love spats, but I can't wear them because I know deep in my heart that the moment I put them on over my Converse I turn evil. Do you know how hard that battle is to fight? I fight it every damn day." 

"I'd be a real monster if I fell in love with my dark side," you tell him. "I'd be abusive, manipulative, probably a sex offender, and constantly wear douchebaggy polo shirts with the collar popped because I think white polos are the sexiest shirts in existence... and that scares me. My tastes scare the shit out of me, Jake. Your corpse-eating gimmick is nothing compared to my hidden fashion preferences. I have to actively fight the desire to wear popped collars, Jake. And trucker hats, Jake. I love trucker hats, but they're so awful, I know they're awful. And spats, Jake, oh Jake, I fuckin’ love spats, but I can't wear them because I know deep in my heart that the moment I put them on over my Converse I turn evil. Do you know how hard that battle is to fight? I fight it every damn day."  
  
You start smangin’ him hard, not wanting to hear whatever inanities he wants to reply with. You’re high as hell and you’re not going to take this any more. Through sheer willpower and hip-thrusting gusto, you force your body to its limit. You want to come, you get yourself to the peak, and you violently empty your second orgasm into Jake.

"What the fuck are you talking abou- oh-" Jake closes his eyes and braces himself as your other body rams into him. The bed creaks beneath you, although you don't move much. Jake gets the brunt of it, while you lay back and enjoy how his mouth parts with pleasure. He comes to a jerking halt when your other body grabs his hips and comes. 

| 

"What the fuck are you talking abou- oh-" Jake closes his eyes and braces himself as your other body rams into him. The bed creaks beneath you, although you don't move much. Jake gets the brunt of it, while you lay back and enjoy how his mouth parts with pleasure. He comes to a jerking halt when your other body grabs his hips and comes. 

You start smangin’ him hard, not wanting to hear whatever inanities he wants to reply with. You’re high as hell and you’re not going to take this any more. Through sheer willpower and hip-thrusting gusto, you force your body to its limit. You want to come, you get yourself to the peak, and you violently empty your second orgasm into Jake.  
  
You take a few shuddering breaths, calming down, and pull out of Jake. His arms are shaking from holding himself up, so you help him lay down on his side. You lay next to him, hugging from the front. Your other body presses his face into Jake’s back and pushes inside him.

You’re hard from the spectacle, from the feeling of Jake inside you, from how high as fuuuuuuuck you are, so you’re ready for this body’s second round. You roll out from underneath him and spoon him. You don’t bother waiting. You spread him apart and push into him. 

| 

You’re hard from the spectacle, from the feeling of Jake inside you, from how high as fuuuuuuuck you are, so you’re ready for this body’s second round. You roll out from underneath him and spoon him. You don’t bother waiting. You spread him apart and push into him. 

You take a few shuddering breaths, calming down, and pull out of Jake. His arms are shaking from holding himself up, so you help him lay down on his side. You lay next to him, hugging from the front. Your other body presses his face into Jake’s back and pushes inside him.  
  
You like watching Jake get fucked. He’s so out of it too, stuck in the haze of lust and dank kush. He’s so nice to look at. You angle his chin towards you if he tries to glance or shift away, and caress his soft skin. Jake’s still rock hard, he hasn’t come a second time yet. You don’t help him out; you lace your fingers with his so he cannot jerk off, and press sweet kisses to his mouth whenever he whimpers for you. It takes forever for your other body to come, shaking and shivering behind Jake.

You don’t get a lot of leverage from behind. The thought of fucking him with three goddamn loads of your own come in him more than makes up for it. His ass is going to look glorious when you’re done with him. You zone out in the warmth, in the steady rhythm of how you rock into him. Your perception of time is so distorted that you have no idea how long it takes to reach the peak. But you do. Cumshot #4 goes into Jake with a moan and a hard thrust. You linger inside him for as long as possible before pulling out. 

| 

You don’t get a lot of leverage from behind. The thought of fucking him with three goddamn loads of your own come in him more than makes up for it. His ass is going to look glorious when you’re done with him. You zone out in the warmth, in the steady rhythm of how you rock into him. Your perception of time is so distorted that you have no idea how long it takes to reach the peak. But you do. Cumshot #4 goes into Jake with a moan and a hard thrust. You linger inside him for as long as possible before pulling out. 

You like watching Jake get fucked. He’s so out of it too, stuck in the haze of lust and dank kush. He’s so nice to look at. You angle his chin towards you if he tries to glance or shift away, and caress his soft skin. Jake’s still rock hard, he hasn’t come a second time yet. You don’t help him out; you lace your fingers with his so he cannot jerk off, and press sweet kisses to his mouth whenever he whimpers for you. It takes forever for your other body to come, shaking and shivering behind Jake.  
  
Finished with the threesome, you step back into one self. You sit up on your knees, over Jake. He looks up at you, desperate.

“Please, I want to come,” Jake whimpers.

"Hold on," you say. "I want to see what you look like."

You have Jake roll over onto his stomach. You spread him apart. Loads of your come ooze out of him, drip between his legs, coat his thighs and balls.

Unable to resist, you push two fingers inside him. Come gushes out around you, and you thrust in and out of him a little, mostly to enjoy the look of it. Jake shivers, his noises muffled by the pillow, and you decide to finish him like this. You prod your thumb around his perineum until you find his prostate, then match the pressure internally with your opposite hand. You massage him in little circles, watch white flood out of him. Your brain’s a little fucked; you struggle to keep an even tempo. But you eventually get him there.

Jake comes directly into your duvet, his spine arching, his muscles tensing beautifully. You continue through it until he’s whining, “Stop, stop, no more,” into the pillow. You remove your fingers from him, and collapse on the mattress next to him. Jake rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, panting heavy. You do the same, next to him. You don’t touch him. 

It takes him quite some time to say something. “You know,” he mutters, with the tone of a stoner who thinks he’s about to announce some deep thesis to the world. “I’m not really into cuddling.”

Your autoresponder splits from you, just so he can say, “Hey, cool, me neither.”

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776)


	61. HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR EGGS? FRIED OR FERTILIZED?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _oviposition, sex pollen, acid trip, sensory deprivation in a meditative sense, pearling, sounding (those eggs have to come from somewhere)_
> 
> _SPECIAL NOTE: this has fancy externally hosted content, although I’m not guaranteeing it will work for everyone (particularly if you are using internet explorer, edge, or older mobile devices). there is a plain text version of the content available._
> 
> [BACK TO TABLE OF CONTENTS -- DIRK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)

Unlike some of the other fantasies, this one is totally featureless. You sit crosslegged, facing Jake, in a black expanse of nothingness. You're both butt naked.

"What in the blazing hell is 'oviposition?'" asks Jake, folding his arms and glowering at you. "And why are you aroused by- Shit! Fuck! Strider! What'd you do to my pecker!?"

Something wonderful. He's erect, and his dick is still normal-ish, but he's got a couple perfectly round orbs in a straight column under the skin on the underside of his shaft. It looks like those 'for her pleasure' circular bulges that extreme body modders sometimes get. Not something you'd consider for your own dick, but do you want it in your ass? Hell yeah you want it in your ass.

"Egg," you grunt, pointing at a bump. They're comparatively big, about the size of the circle created when you press your forefinger and thumb together in a compact OK symbol. "You're going to lay those in my ass. And it's going to rock."

Jake pokes at his dick, looking a little nervous. "Why ever do you want me to plant these things in you?"

"I like being objectively useful for someone else," you say, simplifying basically 75% of your kinks down to the most base level. "Anyway, can you jerk one out for me first? I want to see what they look like before you pump 'em in to me."

"I- uh- okay," he stammers, then grabs his cock at the base. It takes him a couple tentative strokes to figure it out, but he eventually gets it. He hits _something_ right, because his head lolls back and he sighs out an "Oh-" and gets himself off with slow, circular strokes. It's not long before his whole cock tenses, like he's about to come, and he uses the sides of his fingers to push one of the orbs up the length of his dick, to the head.

The egg's got a lot of squish to it, like it's pressed to a much thinner point when it's pumped out from his cock, but the expansion of his urethra makes you wince with empathic pain. Jake doesn't seem to mind, biting his lip as he grabs the viscous top of the black, glowing semi-sphere bulging from the head of his cock. Gobs of precome and semi-transparent black liquids ooze down his shaft when he wiggles it free. He’s all lubed up for you.

You eye up his dick. The orbs visibly shift to assume the original positions, another one conveyor-belting up from who-knows-where to replace the expelled egg. "That didn't hurt?" you ask.

He's panting, biting back a smile. "No, not at all! It was much better than expected. It felt very satisfying."

He holds the thing between his fingers, squints at it. It's a shiny black bubble, with a deep orange glow in the center, like you're staring at a faraway flame. Jake shakes it, near his ear. The light rattles around inside like a nested ball in a cat toy.

"Oh, it makes a ringing sound?" he says, but you didn't hear any noise.

"Don't shake our baby," you say, deadpan.

Jake stares you dead in the eye and shakes it even harder. You can hear the chiming sound now; it's weirdly soothing. Like a baoding ball.

Well, you’re sold. You turn around on your knees and slap your own ass. “C’mon, babe, want to scramble some eggs?”

“Uh, sure!” he says, unsure. Jake being mildly freaked out vis a vis one of your kinks instead of the other way around is incredibly entertaining. You feel his hands press against the bones of your hips, and his ribbed dick rubs against your ass. “Are you ready?”

You take a deep breath, getting in that relaxed state of mind, before saying, “Born ready.”

He gently presses on your back, and you lean forward until you’re in a proper doggy style. Jake’s hand leaves your hips in order to direct himself, and you feel his cock enter you slow and steady and slick. You keep breathing even, the stretch not hurting whatsoever, and he pushes in all the way. He gives you a moment to let you adjust, then begins fucking you.

His textured dick is the absolute tops. It scratches every itch you’ve ever had, and then some. You sigh from the way warmth floods deep through your bones. He makes this “nngh” noise when the first egg shifts inside him, and decreases the pace to fuck you slower. You guess he has to concentrate on how he hits you as opposed to slammin’ through it. Still feels good, even though it’s not as fast as you’d like.

You can’t feel the eggs move —just the wavy ribbing of his dick— but you can sure as hell feel it when it pushes out of him. 

[[the remaining content is hosted externally, click here.](https://www.clockworkcontrivance.website/blackbones/egg.html) turn your phone wideways. if your browser cuts off the END link, just hit the back button.] 

[[or click here for the plain text version](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/39398518#workskin)]


	62. PLAIN TEXT VERSION

You feel it ooze through you like Jake injected ink into you, a warm sensation that floods from your lower half. The first thing that strikes you is a wave of numbness that courses all through your body, like you’re getting injected with morphine. [The second thing that hits you is the sound the egg is making, the ringing bell so deeply embedded you feel like it’s resounding in your soul.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_wKO6XdEh8) The third thing is the lightshow. A burst of warm colors dance across the nondescript black floor beneath you. At first you think it’s some LEDs that were hidden in the scenery, but when you shift your head, the lights move with you like eye floaters. It’s all a hallucination.

"Jake, fuck," you hiss. "These things are drugged. It's like I'm buttchugging LSD."

Jake shudders, clearly expending effort to talk. "Want me to pull out?"

"I- Let's see where this goes," you mutter, as another wave of color washes over you. Jake sighs --you think with relief that you didn't tell him 'stop'-- and fucks a second egg into you.

Another shot of dream-morphine courses through your whole body, and your skin lightly tingles, like you’re rubbing your hands over a static filled blanket. The ringing noise doesn’t get louder, but it gets just a touch stronger, a vibration you can feel through your entire core. You have no idea where these things are lodging themselves inside you. You feel like this would suck actual ass if they were for-real embedding themselves in your lower intestine. Maybe you just grew some weird dream mpreg organ to store them. Jake continues his steady, slow pace.

“I love the music your body is making,” says Jake, his voice stuttering. You wonder if he’s feeling the drugged effect too.

You narrow your eyes at the floor, at the glowing lights pulsing in time with the ringing. "... My ass music? You like the bells in my ass? You like to listen to the sick beats of muffled intestinal noises?"

He wasn't expecting you to lampshade his weird poetry complements. He stops thrusting and you hear him slap his hand over his mouth. He makes a stupid snorting noise. He manages to swallow his laughter down and continue slowly banging you. "Don't think about it like that! That's not very attractive or sexy,” he says. “Stop focusing so much on the nitty gritty and detach yourself! It feels good, and it sounds good, so why twist it into something unpleasant in your mind?"

"See, that's your problem," you say, trying to ignore the visual effects so you can focus. "You're always making the situation about your own pleasure, but you've got to analyze your environment in order to know you're doing the right thing."

"I'd rather not be an over-analytical busybody! It ruins the enjoyment," he says, and you can hear the eyebrow-raise in his voice. "Wouldn't you agree?"

You shut up immediately. You at least have an excuse: a third egg pushes out of his dick. It comes out when he’s pulled all the way back, so you can feel it mash itself into your walls this time around.

It sticks there, as though it's merging into you, and the static-like wave oozes through you from where it's embedded into your flesh. Jake doesn't halt his slow, steady thrusting. Every time his dick rubs over the dome of the egg, it's like he's repeatedly pressing some magic sexual satisfaction button, even though it's not over your prostate. Your eyes roll back into your head, but you can still see the lights.

"Shit," you murmur. You're shaking. "How many more you got in you?"

"A lot," whines Jake. "I want them out."

A fourth slots in deep, and the wave of sensation does not ebb this time. A full body arousal overtakes you, and you become less aware of your non-sexual organs. You let yourself slowly collapse onto your chest, resting your head against the floor and your folded arms, since you've got a feeling you won't be able to hold yourself up a few eggs down the line.

Your dick is aching for release. You’re not sure if you can come in this scene. Speeding up the pace would ruin the song, and your face is smashed into the nondescript floor so it's hard to jerk off. Egg number five gets stuck kitty-corner to your prostate, the aphrodisiac pumping directly to your dick, the ringing vibration of it just close enough to actively stimulate. Your cock pumps out a bit of precome. You're moaning into the crook of your elbow. You try to keep it quiet, you still want to hear the chorus of bells.

"Are you okay?" Jake asks. He sounds as dreamy and out of it as you are.

"Yeah, I'm great, never been better," you struggle out.

"Good," whimpers Jake, and you feel him curve against your back. His voice is a stammer. "Because I- I'm not sure if I can stop."

Egg number six emerges from the head of his cock, the bulb of it rutting against you. Warm black slick and your own come drips down the insides of your legs. "I don't want you to stop," you beg. "Fill me up with everything you've got. I want to be bred."

Jake starts to huff, "Oh, that's right attractive to think about, I really like-" but the sixth bell drowns out his voice. Your body fades into the ether, your world consumed by sound and light and feeling. The only anchor you have is the feel of Jake fucking his eggs into you.

You slowly lose count after that, your mind unable to focus on numbers when you're riding high on freaky drugged up eggpreg sex. The bells get so loud that you cannot hear Jake's grunting as he breeds you, and the vibrations and warmth grow so overwhelming you cannot feel his cock. Even the sensation of getting full, of your prostate overstimulated by five or six eggs now vibrating around it, dissipates into the tantric sex acid trip.

Your fading concept of time and space hits a complete unawareness around number nineteen or twenty. It reminds you of when Jake fucked you while you were sleeping; a complete absorption of your soul into a near-mythic pleasure. Although this time it's a bit more abstract, where the pleasure doesn't have a direct correlation with the sexual. You feel faded and at peace, like you're a master monk meditating under a waterfall. You feel you're at the peak of something wonderful, and you linger there for quite a while. Pretty good payoff for getting stuffed with eggs, honestly.

You're drawn out of it when the chiming in your soul begins to dim. You force yourself to wade through all the colors and bodily experiences to figure out what interrupted these sick jams.

You blink your eyes, hard, a couple times, and shift around on your arms. You're lying flat on your stomach. Jake is heavy on your back, apparently flopped on top of you, making no effort to distribute his weight evenly. His cock is still inside you, and his hips are thrusting weakly against your ass, still trying to fill you. His face is pressed right next to yours, his head hanging over your shoulder, breathing like he's sleeping.

"Jake," you mutter. Jake doesn't move. He keeps trying to grind into you. You raise your voice. "Jake? Are you done?"

"Oh," he says, snapping out of whatever haze he was in. "No, I'm not done yet. I believe I just, well, I filled you to the brim already..."

His voice helps you yank yourself out of the druggie-haze. You frown at the dancing lights in front of you. "You did not fill me up, my ass can take a whole damn fist, if not more."

"No, I mean, you're too tight!" he says, and to demonstrate, he draws his hips all the way back. You are momentarily pulled out of time and space by the cacophony of bells that shift inside you. They settle fairly quickly. Although Jake's cock is mostly out of you, you're so full of eggs you still feel like you're being penetrated. "The poor rolly-polly, extra soft gentleman can't hope to fight against your impenetrable tower walls! I've got another soldier halfway on the battlefield but he can't squeeze in."

"Is this some kind of siege?" you ask, baffled by the Englishism. You hear him inhale, trying to think of a response. "Don't answer that. Look, how many eggs did I dream up for you? There can't be that many left if I'm full up. Jerk the rest out."

Jake removes himself from you, and rolls over on his back. When you sit up, every single one of those eggs decide to chime with the gusto of a Salvation Army ringer on Adderall. You're lost in the sound and sensation for a hot minute, unable to move.

You come back to yourself once the ringing settles a little. Jake's already jackin' it, his eyes locked on you as he massages the next egg from his dick. The hole at the tip expands for the black orb to squish through, and it lands with a soft jingle against his abdomen, then rolls off it. He continues massaging himself, working on the next egg. You decide that this is some hot shit and don't want to lose yourself in the musical eggstravaganza again for fear of missing out on the show.

You get your body as stable as possible, sitting on your knees, and grab your dick. By some miracle, you're still hard, and your cock is covered with your own precome and the black stuff that dripped down from the eggs. You hop to it and start jerking off.

Not wanting to lose the song, you get an arm behind yourself and jam two fingers in your ass. It feels weird and tactilely pleasurable in there, like you're sticking them in a vase full of water beads. You don't go after your prostate, you just fuck yourself and watch the lightshow, feel the soul-deep vibrations.

You can still see Jake through the color, laying beneath you, and massaging the egg out of his cock. It's alarmingly attractive, him ovipositing all over himself. You’re very much into this, the act of being useful as a incubator, and the visual reminder that Jake planted all those in you really gets you going.

It doesn't take you long to come. The orgasm is mildly disappointing in comparison to the sheer awesomeness of the rest of it. It's so... normal. You tense up, the bells all stop ringing momentarily because your butthole clenches like an iron maiden, and you spatter come over Jake's torso.

Your timing was perfect; Jake pumps his last egg out onto his stomach. It rolls into your come and you find that way hotter than it should be. Jake relaxes his grip, briefly shuts his eyes, and breathes in deep as his cock softens. Something occurs to him, and he tilts his head towards you, frowning.

"Part of your fetish isn't to lay them, is it?" he asks, and you sense the fear in his voice.

You plaster on a shitfaced grin and wink at him, just to watch him shudder.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)


	63. LOVEMAKING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ownership, bloodplay, pain, scarification, ritual sex, worship, waxplay, body horror, decapitation (bloodless/painless), voyeurism, roleplay, intense fear, consent issues_
> 
> _note: parallax effect will be nonexistent or less-pronounced on all mobile devices._
> 
> [BACK TO TABLE OF CONTENTS -- JAKE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)

You stand in the middle of the desert, on the apex of a dune, the night quiet all around you. 

A half moon and an impressively starry sky shine their silvers down on waves of sand. The rolling hills extend into the horizon line, gracing the milky way with their pleasant, smooth curves. There’s no shrubbery, no trees, no nothing. It’s just perfect, unbroken, silent dunes. You get the feeling that you’re an intruder on some ancient landscape. It smells crisp and dry and not meant for human life.

You feel the heat bearing down on you. Your body already feels the effects of the climate. A bead of sweat trails down your temple and gets trapped in your sideburn. You always thought the desert was supposed to get cold at night, but instead it’s just like a hot summer evening in California.

You're not quite naked, but you're getting there. Your generic black desert-wear robe is in tatters, and you can only guess at what kind of narrative you just broke out of. Perhaps you're the last survivor of some grand battle? Did you escape from a bunch of slavers? Maybe you're an outcast from some nomadic tribe, doomed to wander the desert until death? Considering it's Jake that dreamed it up, it's probably whichever one of those is most Hollywood.

Speaking of, you don’t see him. You’re not sure where the sex is supposed to come in here; getting sand in your butthole doesn’t sound so great. You pivot on top of the dune, your feet sinking slightly into the hot sands, and look for him. 

There’s a warm light, about a half-mile away, maybe. You can’t tell what the source of it is, the glow is hidden behind the curve of a dune. Is he seriously going to make you trudge through a bunch of sand to get to the fuck-stination?

"Alright, what the hell is this, did you make it up?" you ask aloud. "It can’t be a memory. I'm still unclear as to where you're actually from, but I know for certain that the desert area around the Levant is less Sahara lookin' and more scrubby mountainous terrain lookin'."

Your voice breaks the silence and heat in a way that gives you the shivers. There’s no response. You are alone in the night.

You guess he’s going to make you walk over there. You sigh, then look down, and take your first cautious step down the steep drop of the dune.

You biff it immediately. Your foot sinks right through the sands and you flip backwards and go tumbling ass-over-teakettle down the slope. Nobody warned you about the desert, bro. Nobody told you, dog.

It keeps happening, but it’s not terribly panic inducing: you’re just kinda rolling uncontrollably down a filthy hill. So much for sand not getting in your butthole. You at least manage to keep your eyes and mouth closed during the whole ordeal.

You come to a skidding halt past the base and halfway up a much shorter dune. You stand up, dizzy, and try to brush all the sand out of your hair. It doesn’t help much. You expect Jake to show up and laugh at you, but he doesn’t say a peep or show his face. It’s just you, the night sky, and the silver dunes. 

You're covered in sand, it's nighttime, and this is going to turn into a sex fantasy anyway, so you pull your simple robes off and leave them behind. Underneath you are wearing some haute couture Slave Leia loincloth that doesn’t hide much. You think about unhooking it and going full desert nudist hippie, but the gold chains and drapey cloth between your legs make you feel extra pretty, so you keep it on. You've also got on a couple thick gold bracelets and rings, the kind with engraved bands and seals on the top and big ass gemstones. Hey, maybe you're an exiled prince? That’d be a pretty good narrative.

Something smacks you in the thigh when you take a step. There's an ornate dagger in a leather holster equipped to your golden-chain belt. You pull it out-- it's a stiletto, tapering off to a delicate, needle sharp point. You're, uh, not sure what this is for. You sheathe it and carry on.

It doesn’t take too much time to trudge to the mysterious light source. However, you grow thirsty and tired during the walk. It’s hot, late, and it feels like the air is sucking all the moisture from your bones. 

You climb to the military crest of the glowing dune, and carefully shimmy around the slope. The light comes from a flat outcropping of sand, jutting from the parent dune. Nestled behind the smooth sand is a small clean carpet, Turkish-rug like, surrounded by eight glowing lanterns. Flames flicker in ornate metal cases. 

It feels magic. Like you stumbled into a fairy circle. Or like you found a faraway secret prize in a video game, one with some bonus unique journal item in a nearby treasure chest that explains its intriguing backstory. You walk over and stand in the middle of the soft rug, then look around for Jake.

You nearly jump out of your own skin when he whispers _right in your ear,_ "There's just something so fascinating about these rolling, dry dunes."

You whip around. But he’s not behind you. There’s nothing but the desert and the night and the heat and the lanterns. You suppress a shiver. No need to be scared, Dirk, it’s just a dream.

“Nothing living for miles and miles, just me and you and the quiet,” he continues, his voice as soft as the wind, and you swear you feel his lips against your ear. You whip around again and, nope, still no one. “I love the adventure of it. Imagine, some lost wanderer roaming about, about to die of thirst or heatstroke, and they come across one of the wild outcast djinn lurking in the wastes…”

“Does the wanderer die tragically?” you ask the horizon line in front of you, your throat dry, your heart pounding from the scare he gave you. “Or does he manage to... make a deal?”

"I guess that depends on what he would do for a sip of water!"

"Perform some depraved and blasphemous sex rituals, probably. Sell my soul, become your servant, etc etc."

"All of the above?"

"All of the above," you repeat. You take a moment to swallow. “So what does a guy have to do to get a drink around here? Summon you or whatever?”

“Sure! You could draw a circle and say a bunch of boring words! But that is rather dull and unoriginal,” whispers Jake, occasionally alternating between ears. It’s extremely disorienting. “Want to give the other way a go?”

You don’t know what the ‘other way’ is. You raise an eyebrow and hope Jake catches it.

“Hurt yourself a little,” he says, and you can hear the mischievous smile in his voice. “Call forth the djinn with your passions.”

Your first idea is to gouge yourself with the stiletto, but you don't think that's what Jake has in mind. He'd probably freak if you _actually_ hurt yourself. Instead, you sit down on the rug and scoot towards a lantern, open the little metal door, and take the candle out. It's red, probably-beeswax, short and thick and round and pooling with melted wax around the wick.

"Wouldn't it be better for these to be oil lamps?” you ask. “We're in the middle of a desert."

"Haha, well, I wouldn't want to get trapped in one of those lamps and forced to grant wishes, would I?" he replies, and you can hear the goddamn double-pistols-and-a-wink in his voice.

"That's stupid. The genie in an oil lamp thing is a Western pseudo-bastardization and you know it."

"Jesus tapdancing Christ, Strider, stop questioning things and do whatever you’re going to do!"

You test it on the inside of your wrist. You tilt the candle, let a few drops of the liquid spatter onto your skin. It stings on contact, but cools quite rapidly in a tingly way. You like it, it's like someone's biting you and then immediately kissing it to make it better.

"Oh no no no, that's not nearly enough to call forth supernatural critters!" Jake whispers. "Try again."

Okay. So maybe he _does_ want you to gouge yourself with a knife. You put the candle back in the lantern, shut the door, and shift towards the middle of the rug. You take a moment to scratch the dry wax off your arm. You sit on your knees, unsheathe the stiletto, raise your hands up towards the sky dramatically because you figure Jake's into the Sacrificial Altar Aesthetic, and just fuckin’ slice your right palm open.

You were not thinking about how much it would hurt: it stings like a bitch. You don't go deep or anything, just cut a shallow line down the center to make yourself ooze red all over, but the act of it makes you wince and drop the knife.

"Great start," he whispers in your ear. You clutch your wrist and hold your hand close to your chest. His voice assumes the spooky, tense tone of a first-time DM. "Let's continue the role play, I love a good tall tale. You've just been through some kind of hell, found a little candled oasis in the desert, and cut your palm open for something dark and hidden in the shadows... What are you feeling?"

"Fear," you tell him, trying to think of what your desert-sona would be feeling. You watch little dollops of blood pool in your cupped palm. "I've been warned about creatures like you all my life, and yet here I am, messing with shit beyond my comprehension. But I'm too cowardly to lay down and wait to die."

"Honesty will be rewarded by yours truly! Open your mouth."

You do. And although you cannot see his hand, you feel his thumb push into your chin, and his middle and index fingers press into your tongue. They're coated with something sweet and thick, so you shut your lips and suck on him. It must be honey or mead or something. It's syrupy and delicious, and quenches your thirst. You lick his fingertips until they're clean. He pulls his hand away, and it is still just you all alone in the hot night.

“What do you like about this? It’s an elaborate setup,” you ask the thousands of stars above you. “Is it the reverence? Do you want to be feared and idolized?”

“Sorta kinda not really?” he says, happily, and you feel fingers wrap themselves around your wrist. “But it’s a niche I’ve worn out for myself, isn’t it? Might as well own it! I dug my own grave and must lie in it. It’s not like I don’t like it, especially if you’re tricked into participating in the ruse!”

“Jake. I don’t need Hollywood budgets and effects to want to RP a master/slave kind of scene,” you say, your voice quivering. His invisible hand tugs on your wrist, and you don’t resist his pull. “I’d do this normally. If you haven’t noticed, I’m one kinky son of a bitch.”

“Shhh, you’re ruining the vibe,” he says. He’s apparently behind you, because your right arm is pulled up and bent behind your head. “Act like you’re scared.”

You feel his tongue against your bloody palm and a shiver wracks you head to toe. God, that’s weird. If he keeps doing this, you might not have to act.

He licks up the long line of the cut. You stare hard at one of the warm, glowing lanterns in front of you, trying to focus on how pretty the flame looks instead of the not-sexy sensation of getting your blood drank. It’s a slight pang, a series of needle-sharp pinpricks felt as he laps up your congealing blood.

“Fresh blood is really goddamn bland,” he whispers into your palm. You yank your arm down in front of you as soon as he lets go. His lips move to the back of your neck, and all your hairs stand on end. “But it will be enough. Call for me. Believe in me.”

You wipe your palm free of spit on your bare thigh. The cut is gone. “What should I call you during this scene?” you rasp, figuring you should ask.

"How about 'love?' It's a classic!"

You were expecting ‘master’ or ‘daddy’ or something else distasteful. ‘Love’ is… eerily pleasant.

“Alright.” You lick your bottom lip. “Dear dark, mysterious, invisible thing in the desert: I am currently at the end of my rope, trapped in a lifeless wasteland, and will die of thirst or hunger or heatstroke without your help. I will be your sexy, sexy boy toy servant forever if you promise to keep me alive and safe and happy. I’m super scared of you, by the by, did I mention that? Amen.”

His voice is a quiet rasp in your ear. "What will you give me?"

“Everything. My mind, body, soul,” you list, thinking of poetic things to dedicate to a demon. "Everything I have, love."

His hands drag up your exposed thighs, but again, there’s nothing there. You can’t be sure you’re not imagining the sensation. You get goosebumps in places you didn’t even know you could get goosebumps.

"Mind, body, soul... The effects of being shackled," he whispers in your right ear. "What will it make you want to do? Will you want to fight with me, pray to me, weep for me, fall in love, or have sex?"

"Probably two of those. Your pick," you say, unsure of how real this is. "I should let you know: when you talk all dreamy and obtuse like that it _actually_ freaks me out. You've been training a Pavlovian fear-response in me with your aesthetic hypothetical genie poetry since the day we met."

Jake laughs, breathy, on your left side. He thinks it's a joke. His invisible hands splay across your pelvis. "I could say the same nonsense in Arabic? French? Khazar? Turkmen? But I might as well prattle on in English as you'll understand my words no matter the language."

The door of a lantern opens, and the noise of the hinge cuts through the oppressive quiet. You watch as Jake removes the light from it and brings it close to you. It hovers near your chest like a stereotypical floating horror movie candle. “I want to carve you into what I want. I will sew my name on every thread of your fasciae, I want your insides to be covered in me.”

Your voice cracks when you try to spit back a sarcastic "Mhmm." With the hand not holding the candle, he reaches under the gold chain at your hips and rubs his palm over your soft cock. He does this silently, for a few minutes. You take a deep breath in time with the relaxing, warm ministrations, letting yourself get into an aroused mindset. With a mysterious third hand, Jake plucks the discarded stiletto from the carpet and places it against your neck.

Your heart races, your eyes shoot open wide, it is an inhuman effort not to swallow. The point of the dagger presses delicately to your throat, slides up without cutting, and tilts your chin towards the stars. Your dick is instantly rock hard. You're riding high on adrenaline. 

The sharp end is a hair away from cutting the underside of your chin. You’re shaking. Jake’s thumb rubs against the tip of your cock, smearing precome over it. "Don't fret," whispers Jake, in your right ear. "I'm just going to perform a bit of the ol' poke-and-stick tattooidge, yeah? I want the moon and the sun and all the stars in the sky to know who you belong to."

You figure he named inanimate god-objects because there's a low chance your exiled ass will ever interact with another human being again. You're destined to entrapment, some fuck-slave for a demon in the sands, bound to him for the rest of your life and probably after-death too. Used and possessed and euphoric for an eternity.

_Damn,_ okay, putting it like that doesn’t sound so bad… You could grow to like this when it's just a fantasy. Jake makes losing your mind in the desert really appealing.

He stops massaging your cock. You wish you could see his face. You stay as still as possible when you feel the dagger move, your breath coming in shudders, inhaling the dry heat. He presses the tip of the stiletto against the top of your left pectoral, and slices.

There’s no dream magic plastered over this pain. The thin, short line he scribes into your skin feels exactly like you’re getting nicked with a chef’s knife, akin to when you’re chopping onions and the blade slips and cuts off a piece of your knuckle. You’re alarmed by the realness of it, and you bite your lip to avoid crying out.

“None of that hush-hush nonsense,” whispers Jake. “I want the whole world to hear the praises you sing.”

You can’t hold it in for long, anyway. You look down at your left side, watching the knife write into you with a growing horror. He cuts another line into you, and you put the two shapes together into something you recognize as “al,” the start of a noun. It hurts worse than the first. You’re not screaming bloody murder or anything, but you are tensing up and wincing and breathing heavy.

Relief in the form of bullshit dream magic comes a word or two into Jake’s poetry. He quickly tips the candle over what he just wrote, and a small stream of wax drips onto you. It melts into you, fills in the gaps he left in your skin, and erases your pain as it dries. There is no fucking way this would work in real life, waxplay as an isolated ibuprofen, but you’ll fuckin’ take it. It means your pain will be isolated to short spurts all along your body. Jake continues to write into you, a couple words that feel like a burning nightmare, then the wave of wax that cools it. You shake and shiver and get lost in the pain.

You're maintaining an erection from this. Your body is giving you all sorts of confusing signals, so at first you think it's the same type of boner you get from exerting yourself, but drilling down and finding the core feeling you discover you're aroused by it. It shouldn't come as a surprise. Unlike some of the concurrent extreme fetishes you're experiencing in other scenes, you could see yourself going through an arduous tattoo process in the real world for the sake of getting your rocks off. You've got a thing for being marked, particularly if your partner possesses a matching tattoo.

When your chest is covered with Jake’s Arabic scrawling, hidden under wax, his hands flicker into semi-visibility. It is like you are catching glances of them out of the corner of your eye. His positioning becomes clearer with the short glimpses of his whittling. He sits behind you, and his arms are hooked around yours. He holds the knife backhanded in his left, like he’s going to stab through you and impale himself in the heart with it. In his right he holds the candle, poised around your collarbone for easy tilting.

He has henna on his hands, big circles on the backs, and painted so the tips of his fingers are black and his nails are an oak brown. You’re not sure why that creeps you out. Maybe because henna lacks an inherent Jake-ness. You can’t see him willingly spending the time to apply it.

You’ve gotten used to the pain until he cuts into the tip of your ribcage, where there is no fat to protect you. You dig your teeth into your lip so violently, it splits. It is one of the hardest things you have ever done to keep yourself still as he continues to hurt you. You feel blood, burning hot, trickle down your stomach. Every breath is agony, your lungs deepening the wounds every time you inhale, until he pours the red wax and fills the bloody cracks in you.

"Jake," you beg, when you get the chance. "I need something to bite down on."

"Show respect to those who own you," he tsks into your ear.

"My love," you repeat, not even hesitating over how godawful that is to say right now. "Please. I need help."

Layered cloth is placed in your mouth like a communion wafer, and you bite down on it. It's silk, folded up a bunch so you can't knock your teeth together. You scream around it as he carves the next letters into your nerves. It muffles your noises perfectly.

You’re a skinny dude, so there’s no relief from his writing as he scrawls right-to-left across your stomach. There is at least some distraction provided by your arousal, as well as the slowly solidifying appearance of Jake English. You feel his body pinned to your back. You catch glances of more than his hands now. His sleeves are bizarrely long, pulled all the way to the wrist, and constantly moving in an impossible way. Thick, pure black ribbons wrap around his forearms like wind, hang off his biceps, moving between solidity and fiction like a mirage.

It’s not the kind of shit you can picture Jake wearing. It fuels the fire of your imagination. You picture his soft hands leading up to a nightmare face, a monster not meant for humans to see. You picture a lich behind you, an ancient king of the dead, a ghost forgotten in the desert.

You're scared out of your fucking mind. 

Sweat from the desert heat and your own fear pools in the curve of your spine, against Jake’s stomach. You look down at yourself, covered in red wax that you cannot differentiate from your own blood. Shadows from his cloak wrap around your thighs. You watch him move the knife down a line, like a typewriter. You straight up scream around the cloth when he carves a line against your pelvic bone.

"Are you okay, pet? I’m just signing my name," he whispers in your ear. You wonder if you can see his lips now. You don’t dare turn your head.

"I'm scared shitless, love," you whimper around the cloth, nearly laughing with how ridiculous it is to be scared of a dream.

"Peachy," he hums, apparently interpreting your statement as roleplaying. "Don’t fret, I'll treat you very well once you’re dedicated."

You know that whatever you're imagining is much, much worse than what's actually behind you. You know that you'll turn around and see Jake's dumbass, cutesy overbite and the fear will dissipate somewhat. But you’re not sure if you want to pull back the curtain quite yet.

Something about knowing you're going to have sex with him turns you on, makes the fear bearable. You're not sure if you like it, but you're positive your future self will _really_ enjoy the memories. He'll have plenty of masturbation material, thoughts of fear and arousal going hand in hand, of getting mutilated and fucked by something that loves you like a caged songbird while you're defenseless and alone and desperate in the wasteland.

You shoulder through him signing his name on your hip, then covering it with wax. You breathe a sigh of relief when he puts the candle away, and takes the cloth from your mouth. He grinds his body against your back, gripping your thighs, and you don’t pull your eyes away from the knife still in his hand and pressed flat to your leg. The metal of the blade is hot against your skin. 

He blows in your ear. Which is so fucking weird, unexpected, and jarring that you actually state, “What the shit,” aloud. He ignores that.

A dry wind rises from the shimmering silver sands, and rushes across your torso. The wax is taken with it, flying like petals into the dark night. You are left clean, your new scars exposed to the world. 

You adore them.

You have no idea what any of it says, but you have a story scrawled on you in beautiful, handwritten Arabic. You get the vaguest sense that it’s a love letter to your body, how Jake wants to keep and use it. Besides for being aesthetically pleasing, you genuinely like the message behind it: your body is not your own anymore.

You think that it’s tattooed on you with black ink, perhaps soot from the candles. But as you examine yourself, you note that isn’t the case. You aren’t tattooed with anything. These are all open gashes.

You press your finger against the cut of the first letter, the line under your left collarbone. It does not hurt, but you enter into your skin like pushing through a slit in a Kleenex box. You draw back, and examine the fluid from what’s inside you. It isn’t blood, but something black and sparkling, like the stars above.

Jake grabs a fistful of your hair, lifts the knife to your throat, and you freeze.

"This will not hurt, nor will it kill you," he states, and you're compelled to believe him. The knife slides through your neck like it's cutting through a gelatin egg.

He beheads you. He plucks you from your neck, takes you in his arms, carries you so you can see your full body in profile. Black, starry, beautiful goo bubbles from your headless neck and down your spine. Curiously, you are still aware of your flesh, your limbs, your dick. You will your hand to clench into a fist, and watch and feel your body go through the motions as though you were still attached to your shoulders. It's kind of like you're directing yourself through a mirror.

Jake covers your eyes with his hand, and lifts you. It is surreal to feel wind rushing around your head without your neck moving. His lips are on yours, soft and wanting.

This is... deranged. You're a strange guy, your fetishes are by no means restrained by the plausible, and your tastes in hentai probably put you on an FBI watchlist, but even _you're_ freaked out by this. You've still got a boner, and your senses remain plagued by the hot cloud of arousal, but there's a slowly growing voice in your head that prevents you from getting 100% invested in any aspect of the scene. At least you find decapitation appealing, although that’s less of a sexual appeal and more Romantic with a capital R.

You figure you'll be fine as long as Jake doesn't skullfuck you. Making out with him intrigues you, how Jake covered your eyes so as to unnerve you a little more. You reach out for him, as an automatic response to being lovingly kissed. You slide your hands down his chest, and it feels like you're raking your fingers across heavy mist rising from a humid swamp.

Also, wait, that doesn't make any sense. You and Jake are over _here_ and your body is over _there._ Jake pulls you away when you stop kissing back, and holds you by the temples near his own head so you can see who your body is touching.

It's another Jake. It appears as though he's sitting on your lap in the lotus position, but you cannot feel anything except the heat of the environment. He is cloaked in shadow. Windy darkness wraps around him, hangs off him, an ever-shifting and ever-dripping cavalcade of draping desert robes. It’s got a stiff collar, a scarf too, constantly moving and shifting around his neck. The only skin you can see are his hands, tracing some of the writing on your stomach. His head curls around your shoulder, so you cannot see his face. 

His lower half is confusing to look at. You have no idea where his knees or feet are. Most of the cloak dissipates like tendrils and tufts of smoke into the night, coating your white hips and legs in a black mist. Occasionally pieces of his outfit will remain cloth-like, draping like ribbons, wrapping like a distorted tail around your calves and ankles.

He looks like Death. Jesus fucking Christ. You wish you could see his face.

"I like watching myself play," he murmurs in your ear. "Don't you?"

Not really, no. You're too petrified to answer. 

The Jake with your body shifts a little, and takes you inside him. You must be hard as a diamond, since the slick, tight sensation is a veritable firework show of heat and pleasure, enough to completely distract you from the vile position you’re in. Your breath comes out shaky.

He does not physically move, but you get the sensation of him sliding up and down your cock. You suppose the smoky ghost cloak could be hiding all the movement. Your body tenses and twitches beneath him as he pleasures you; you didn't know you reacted like that to sex. You try to find his hips, get a grip on something tangible, but it is hard to figure out what direction to move your limbs in when your perception is so distorted. You end up flailing your arm around like an idiot and Jake whispers, "Stay very still and look pretty for me, pet." You don't have it in you to rebel.

You are disturbed by how quiet it is. There's no sounds of skin hitting skin, or wet sliding, or the sounds of the rug moving. He is not making any noise, and you don't tend make much noise during sex until you're deep into it. It is just the quiet, still desert, and you and the jinn.

The sex feels incredible. It's almost enough to make you forget you're a floating head. Your toes curl against the rug, your spine curves surprisingly elegant, you bare all your poetry to Jake. Your face relaxes into the normal sex-expressions as your body gets fucked. Jake kisses your ear as you breathe heavier with every one of his thrusts, static building up in your limbs.

"I’m going peel you and see what lies beneath," he whispers to you. "Body, mind, and soul. I don't have any use for your mind, yours irritates me. But the other two are worth diving into."

You still have enough coherency to register what he said. The Jake riding you leans back, away from your shoulder. You finally see his goddamn face.

Looking into his glowing orange eyes is like shining your flashlight into a deer’s eyes at midnight. You only catch glimpses of his mouth and chin, when the ever shifting scarf and collar allows you to see between the winds. Black smoke wisps from his nostrils and the corners of his lips. He finally looks the part of a corpse-eater. With his mouth covered by wispy smoke most of the time, it’s easy to imagine a row of dagger-like and bloodstained teeth hiding beneath his skin.

He grips your neck with his hands, his touch burns, and you feel your airway tighten. He pushes you down, so you are lying prone, although he continues straddling you. You can see all his writing carved into you clearly, lines cut deep into your black insides.

He spreads out his hands over your chest, and you cry out when you feel the sensation of getting cut again. You watch a thin, black line draw itself around the poem, a rectangle that spans from the top of your chest to beneath the area Jake is straddling. It doesn't take very long, but it's as though the knife is carving into you again.

You jerk, trying to scramble for your chest and hold yourself together, but you completely miss what you're aiming for. Jake's henna covered hands catch your wrists, and grip them with his nails digging into your veins. His grasp leaves a deep black stain on your arms. Marked and bound you are.

The square splits. It feels like your skin is cracking from being too dry, but on a massive scale. Black liquid bursts from the wound. You're at the point where your body crosses a few wires and slips over the thin pain/pleasure line. It hurts in a way that sends electricity down to your dick, and Jake covers your mouth just in time to block a half-scream, half-moan from echoing through the silent desert.

You feel like you're gonna come. Your body is shaking like you're being electrocuted. Jake's still fucking you, it's building up in tandem with the pain. You are afraid and you hurt and you want to crawl out of your own skin and you begin to have the vague inkling that you're going to regret it if you don't tell Jake to _stop._ This was treading the line between fun-scary and scary-scary before, but you think you’ve crossed the point of no return.

You don’t get the chance to tell him. He covers your mouth again as the other Jake digs his fingers inside the outline of the square. It hurts like he's shoving his hands inside your intestines. You straight up scream into his palm, you feel your dick pump out a sizable amount of precome into Jake. He rolls your skin up like a papyrus scroll. Perhaps he wants to save the poem in his collection. 

Beneath it, there is nothing but a starry sky. Your heaving ribcage keeps it locked in. There is a bright light hidden by your sternum, like the rising sun masked by shadow. You think you know the source of the glow: your soul with the black curse he wrote on it. 

Jake’s hand moves. You watch the other Jake reach beneath your ribcage. Jarring discomfort floods through you head to toe, tandem with the building orgasm, and you struggle for the strength to say no.

"Love," you choke out. "Stop. Please, fuck, I’m scared, I don’t want to do this anymore."

"You sold yourself to me, pet," he whispers, cheerfully. God fucking dammit, he thinks you're still playing pretend. "I will do what I please with your three aspects, thank you very much."

You hate how it turns you on to be ignored, to not have a safe word, to have someone power through your objections and take their pleasure from you. You don't know if Jake is playing into your genuinely dangerous desires or if he's so selfish he's suppressing your clear distress and lying to himself that you're acting. He _can't_ be ignorant of your mental state. Right?

Either way, you are afraid and horrified and in-pain and blisteringly hormonal. You buck your hips up and get aroused by the tense threat of death on top of you. You come out of desperation, a sudden heat building up and forcing itself through you. You watch yourself claw your nails down Jake's sides. You are deeply regretting your penchant for eschewing safe words. Jake giggles as you spatter come through his shadowy insides, and he reaches for your marked soul.

The sound of a dial up modem echoes through the desert. Jake freezes, his glowing orange eyes blink with confusion.

The whir of cooling fans roars through your ears, and your head reappears on your body in a violent whirlwind. Your body gets the hole filled in, your skin is back to normal, and the Jake that was holding your head vanishes. The creepy jinn Jake still sits on your lap, blinking at you.

Someone teleports directly next to the both of you. At first you think it’s yourself— you’re wearing your shades and everything. It takes a moment or two to recognize that it’s your autoresponder. He’s holding one of those spray bottles for misting naughty pets.

"He’s not acting, you absolute tit. Down boy," he says, and sprays Jake in the face with a few quick spritzes.

"Ugh! Hey!" Jake yells, disgusted, jerking back. He wipes the water from his cheeks with his scarf, revealing his utterly human face. His clothes transition to hang on him like normal. He’s straddling your lap like you thought he was, on his knees. You don’t think you’re inside him anymore. "Capital! Just capital! I had a great vibe going on here and you had to go and ruin it!"

Your AR makes a clicking noise with his tongue, puts on another pair of triangular shades over the ones he's currently wearing, double pistols in the most deadpan way imaginable, says, "Stay frosty, kids," and then vanishes completely. The desert is utterly silent. Jake glowers at you.

"Was he lying?" he asks, still peeved. "I’m not scary at all! That was all smoke and mirrors, right?"

Your heart is still hammering, although the come down from your orgasm is helping things. You slide a hand through your hair, to try and calm down. "No. You scared the shit out of me. I meant it when I told you ‘stop.’”

Jake blanches. Although it is nighttime, and his skin is darker, you can tell that the redness drains from his face. He claps his hands over his mouth and says into his palms, "Oh, no no no no, really? I'm so sorry! I'm so so so sorry! I didn't know!"

"Admittedly, I enjoyed you ignoring me, but that's my self-destructive problem to deal with, not yours." You take a few more deep breaths, trying to slow your hammering heart. "And get bent, you _had_ to know. If it wasn't clear by how I was reacting, you can essentially read my fuckin’ mind, dude."

Jake's shaken, but he manages to summon some anger and say, "I don't invade your mental space every waking moment of the day!"

He's still in your lap, but you manage to sit up super straight by grabbing his waist for support. You look him in his utterly normal green eyes. "The only reason you didn't peer into my mind was because you knew you'd have to stop. You're a selfish dumbass who jumps on any excuse to get your way. You take 'ignorance is bliss' to a next-level extreme."

He clenches his teeth, then insists, "I'm sorry! It really didn't occur to me to do the mind delving thing."

"If we do this again, we will define a safe word you can't ignore."

"What's a safe word?"

God, that's sad. You sigh, tragically. "Another way to say 'stop.'"

"Why can't I just ask you if you're doing okay? That’s been working most of the time! Or why not just say 'stop?'"

"Because of shit like this where we're playing pretend and then you've got an excuse to ignore me if it benefits you!" you hiss, pulling at your own hair. "Why are you so obstinate about goddamn consent!? Does it freak you out to discuss the pain you might cause!? If you acknowledge that you're a huge dick, is that going to make you realize that you've _always_ been a huge dick!? That you need to change!?"

Jake's voice comes out weak and quiet. "I'm sorry... I just want you to feel good..."

"Look at me, love," you say, and grab his face, press your palms into his cheeks, force his head even with yours. His eyes widen, the tables turned so he's now afraid of _you._ "You've given me more visceral pleasure than I have ever felt in my sad little life. My body feels _great_ when I'm with you. That does not make you any less of a monster."

Jake's pupils narrow to pinpoints. You feel him shaking beneath your grip. The environment fades into blackness around you. The heat dissipates into true neutrality. You do not break eye contact.

"I'm ending this. I’m done," he says, monotone. "I'm done."

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)


	64. BIG FISH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _nipple torture, slight lactation, impregnation/breeding kink, first time, dirk’s got a vagina and boobs and is a precious little estrogem_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - JAKE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)

You stand in a grassy field, on a clear sunny afternoon. You have a wicker laundry basket clutched between your arm and hip. Everywhere you look, there are clotheslines with white sheets pinned up, swaying in the breeze. There are so many of them that you cannot see what lies beyond the green lawn you stand on.

You pull off your shades to see the colors of your environment better. Your hands are smaller, and your nails are so long and red and perfect you look like you should be a Vogue magazine hand model. Your shades are cat eye lenses in orange frames. You put them back on, slightly alarmed. You glance down at yourself. Your view of the ground is obscured by plump, round, pale tits smashed together firmly in one of those white hillbilly halter tops.

You fondle your own boob like you're weighing a bag of coins. Yup, it's genuine certified grade A tiddy. No bra. What the _fuck,_ Jake.

Besides for the tit-focused top, you've got on daisy dukes with a huge horseshoe belt buckle and cowboy booties. You think you've got your luscious blond locks in a bun, and have a bandanna for a headband. You notice the bizarre sensation from your junk when you shift your weight. Your kneejerk reaction is that your dick is tucked. Your shorts are very tight and the thick seam of the denim is pressed up against your cotton underwear in a way that would normally be uncomfortable. Wiggling a bit clues you in that your balls are _not_ shoved into your taint-- they're just gone.

You're 95% sure you've got a vagina. You're heart-stoppingly alarmed for one second before you stop and think about it. As a temporary, fun-sexy thing, this is fine. It's like a novelty, like putting on a latex gimp suit just for one scene. You can get behind that, even if you're not aroused by crossdressing. Besides, you've wondered what it feels like to shove shit up a hole besides your ass; it's cool you get to experiment. Many have philosophized over which genital has the better orgasm: only you shall get the true answer.

You drop the laundry basket. You fold your arms. You glare at the sheet in front of you.

"Is your fetish me doing laundry for you," you ask, your voice an irritating ten pitches higher. You could sing soprano. "I don't see why I need tits and a wig to do that."

His shadow appears on the other side of the sheet swaying in front of you, and Jake reaches up and unhooks the clothespin. The sheet falls to the side like a curtain. He has on a cowboy hat, a sleeveless black shirt, classic Americana jeans, and dumbass cowboy boots. You have to tilt your head upward to look at him. You come up to Jake's shoulder, at best. Fuck, you must be like, five foot even.

"What? No! It's like that tearjerker scene in Big Fish,” he replies. “Haven't you seen Big Fish?"

"Big Fish had a classic Tim Burton aesthetic, not... whatever this is." You narrow your eyes. "Why are we dressed like country western pinups."

"I like westerns," he says, flatly.

You stare at him, baffled, for a good ten seconds. What the fuck kind of heterosexual nonsense is he stereotyping here? You have no idea where to begin psychoanalyzing this hot mess. Jake appears to be going down a completely different train of thought, since you _swear_ little pink hearts start to pop around his head as he stares at you.

"You're so cute!" he squeals, then plucks you into his arms with a quick swoop. The way he grabs you is with one arm under your ass and the other around your waist, and lifts you so his head is even with your cleavage. Which he takes full advantage of. His voice is muffled between your tits as he nuzzles you. "You're prettier than anything, ohhhh you're so gosh darn precious, I could eat you up!"

This gets to you more than it should. You feel dejected, which is stupid--- your self worth really shouldn't depend on this psycho you've known for a week total. "You don't like my normal body?"

"No, no, I do! I'm allowed to have more than one type you know! I just _also_ happen to like..." He dislodges himself from your cleavage to beam up at you. "Daintiness and dependency in the physical. I like to feel like I'm protecting something! Or that I'm a big strong manly man ready to provide for my pretty delicate wife!"

You crumple your mouth to the side, in disgust. "That ain’t right, dude."

He swings you into a bridal style hold, and carts you through a couple lines of sheets. It's fun, to be carried like this. You loop your slender arms around his shoulders. He giggles, completely unaffected by your accusation. "What's the harm? It's just a fantasy!"

"The fact that you have that fantasy at all is a little concerning," you say, grimacing. Jake sets you down on a flat stretch of grass. "Particularly considering the fate that befell the wife whose skull you have."

He unhooks a sheet from the line, gives it a shake, and then spreads it out like a picnic blanket beneath the two of you. Instead of pushing you onto it and ravishing you, he bends down and kisses you sweetly. He also grabs two big handfuls of your boobs, and rubs his thumbs gently around the tips, over the thin cloth. 

Usually, you’re not big on nipple stimulation. You don’t have the sensitivity there to see it as erotic. But this feels fucking _amazing,_ like the friction of your shirt against your chest is causing you to see stars. It’s a gentle, almost ticklish warmth that spreads through you, all the way to your core.

You pull back from the kiss. He doesn’t stop rubbing you. Your face is heating, you bet you’re blushing, and you bet he likes that. “Did- did you give me increased nipple sensitivity, dude? That’s fucking weird.”

There’s red lipstick marked on his cheek and slid across his mouth where you kissed him. He stares at you like he wants to put you behind a glass case. He pinches you, pulls, plays with your tits, and you lean against his shoulders and moan like an idiot. You’re, uh, pretty wet already, which feels way hotter than it should be. You suppose you find seeping in your own juices attractive because it’s something of an equivalent to an erection— a physical reminder that you’re aroused.

He only answers when you’re a righteous mess, barely coherent enough to register his answer. “It’s part of the package deal!” he chirps. “You know, because you’re a fertile field ready to be replowed and all.”

That jerks you out of it. “Excuse me,” you ask, dryly.

He doesn’t respond to that, instead continuing with a hungry sounding, "Mind if I taste you? I'm quite good at it."

“Uh, I guess,” you say, shrugging. Jake’s already working at your giant horseshoe belt buckle, more elated for oral than you are. You miss his hands on your breasts. “You don’t have to. I’d rather skip to the put-things-in-holes-unknown part.”

“Shhh, you’ll love it,” he says, yanking down your shorts and panties in one go. You step out of them, sit down on the sheet laid out for you. Before coming to join you, Jake grabs two clothespins from a nearby line. He gestures for you to lay down, so you do. He spreads your legs open, but before ducking between them, he clips the two clothespins to your nipples, through your shirt. While not quite as amazing as him actively rubbing you there, it still feels pretty great. It’s a burning, gentle ache, one that you think will intensify as you get more aroused.

He lays on his stomach, puts your thighs around his shoulders. You feel his breath on you, and you shiver with want. He presses his thumb to your labia and massages you. Always wondered what this felt like. Kind of like getting your balls fondled, except you're really slick and wet. Adds a special something. Some lube pizazz.

"You have such a pretty pussy," he says. He takes off his glasses and cowboy hat and sets them aside. "And your petals are all open for me already."

"Thanks, that means absolutely nothiiiii-hoooly shit!"

He fuses his mouth to you, where your clit is. You're not used to this kind of arousal. It's sharp, hot, more intense than a standard blowjob. It's like someone's mercilessly sucking the head of your cock, that super sensitive part where the skin joins together. You’re not sure if this is how it’s supposed to feel. It kind of… hurts, maybe.

"Jake," you stammer, your body writhing. "I think something’s wrong, it's too much, it's too-"

He shifts around the actual goddamned maze down there and the burning feeling disappears instantly. Your spine relaxes. It still feels insanely good, like a pinpoint focus on your pleasure as opposed to an all-over, building experience. You do miss the show of it all, the look of a guy sucking your dick. There's nothing much to watch here: Jake's got his eyes closed, his hands wrapped around your legs, mouth latched to you so you can't see the wonders he's working with his tongue. But it's nice to let your head loll back and focus on just the sensation. You pet his hair as he eats you out, it’s soft between your fingers.

Your chest aches, amplifying the intense, warm feeling of oral. You feel orgasm build up much slower than you’re used to, your body spasming and your thighs clenching around Jake’s head. It’s just about the greatest shit in existence. However, orgasm itself is pretty damn close to what you get with a dick; it’s longer and your muscles seem to lose control a little more, which you like, but other than that it’s all business as usual. You clamp your hand over your mouth to avoid hearing your own screechy voice as you come hard.

Jake keeps licking and sucking you through the whole thing, and you have to pull him back by the hair because that burning feeling is coming back. He blinks up at you, grinning, and wipes the slick from his mouth. Despite coming, and feeling quite relaxed and tingly all over, you’re still raring for more. That’s a nice twist.

Jake gets up on his knees and starts undoing his leather belt. You’re about to make a sarcastic comment about eating out and his jinn-ish tendencies when you notice the growing wet spots on your chest. Alarmed, you unclip the clothespins from yourself and tug at your right tit. Milk spurts out of it like you’re a goddamn cow, soaking through your shirt. It tingles and you hate it.

"Okay, what the fuck, that can't be normal," you say, horrified. "I refuse to believe that's normal. Why is this happening."

"Because! You've already sired some of my children!" he says, his grin getting wild. He pulls his dick out of his jeans, it’s hard and dripping precome. "And it's springtime, so tis the season!"

You facepalm, in realization. “Oh, god, you have an impregnation kink. Of course you do. You like 'dependency in a body,' shit, dude, that's incredibly dark.”

He ignores you, and leans in to goddamn lick the milk from your tits. You pry his head off at light speed, rasping, “No, no, fuck no, too oedipal, I’m drawing the goddamn line.”

He frowns, in your face. “I’ve never had a mother.”

“That… literally can’t be true,” you state, baffled. “Whatever, I don’t care, let’s just start fucking before I get so turned off I start growing teeth in my vagina.”

Jake rolls his eyes, sighing, and pulls his shirt off. He undoes your halter top and dries you off with his shirt, which is nice of him. He tosses both tops into the clotheslined void, then backs away from you a bit.

"It's easier for your first couple times if you're on top!"

"Please. I'm an anal expert. How different could it be?" you say, haughtily. “Put me in a goddamn mating press.”

He shrugs, lowers his pants so he’s got lots of room for skin-on-skin action, then gets in missionary with you. You cross your legs behind his hips, you feel the head of his cock against your labia. It’s nice, although you’re not as turned on as you were before.

“Dude, at least put a dream condom on,” you say, as a joke. You don't actually want him to do so: this isn't real, and you want to know what it feels like to get fucked raw. "I might get dream pregnant."

He raises an eyebrow, bemused. "From my experience, that's part of the fun."

"God, you're an asshole," you say, although your voice quivers. He kisses you, sweet and gentle on the lips, then pushes into you.

It hurts like hell, in the way anal hurts when you’re not prepped for it. You’re sputtering out “Ow, fuck, stop, ow-” before he can even get the tip in.

"Oh no," says Jake sarcastically, pulling out and giving you an 'I told you so' look. He nuzzles your face with his own. "You've got to relax, sweetheart. It's like your tush. You'll close up if you're not relaxed or aroused."

"I'm aroused. Just having a hard time figuring out which pelvic floor muscle to trigger," you hiss. 

He giggles. “That might be a little too advanced for your first time. Just go all gummy and loose for me? I'll go very, very slow. Here, focus on my words instead of my raging manhood.”

He pulls out of you, then rocks his hips in little circles, so the shaft and head of his cock massage your clit. It's good, you feel antsy, like you want it inside again. 

"You're so wet for me, dear," he murmurs, sweetly. "You're soaked. You want me to fill you up that bad, huh?"

Heat throbs between your legs. "Yeah," you say. "Raw me on the fucking lawn."

"Of course, pet," he says, then reaches down to align himself with you. "I'll breed you for all you're worth."

You part easier for him, when he pushes the tip into you. It's still tight and a little sore, but it helps that he's slow and sweet talking you. He lowers himself until he’s fully on top of you, his face pressed right into your ear.

“I’ll fuck right into your slick cunt,” he whispers, apparently on a roll. The tip slides past your… entrance? You forgot 10th grade health class and can’t remember what the bottom part of the vagina is called. Either way, it’s much easier once he gets past that first inch or two. His cock pushes right through your sore, unused muscles, and you gasp at the fullness. “I want to use you until you’re filled with me.”

He starts thrusting, slowly. It hurts a little, at first, although not enough for you to cry Uncle on the whole thing. You learn to relax as he continues, removing both the aching hurt and also some of the pleasure. Disappointingly, it's not that different from anal. You've even got a weird prostate equivalent with the G-spot he's kind-of hitting every other thrust. You do like the added bonus of him slamming against your clit whenever he's fully inside you.

You have no clue how to position yourself in order to maximize pleasure, and you don’t want try learning a skill you’ll never use again, so you kind of lay there and do literally nothing in a semi-pleasurable haze. You’re pretty damn sure you’re not going to come from this: maybe that’s why Jake insisted on going down on you first. He seems to really fuckin’ enjoy it though, his bizarre dirty talking is breathy and heated and spoken in time with his thrusting.

"I'm going to keep you forever and come inside you over and over again," he rasps, like he’s reading erotica aloud. He continues on in the same exaggerated, growling voice. "And then you'll be in a constant state of pregnancy and forced to wed me and then be economically dependent on me as you're boxed into the archaic housewifey wife role and get TB and waste away in our grandiose Victorian mansion while I'm off exploring and die in childbirth after our 5th one."

“Uh…” you say, hesitant. He seems pretty close, your body shaking against the sheet with every harsh thrust. “That sure is a hot and totally normal thing you just said.”

“Mhmm,” he agrees, unironically. “Oh, Diii-rrrk, I want to make desperate love to you until you die from being overbred.”

“… Okay,” you state, your lip raising into a scowl. You pat his shoulder, consoling him. “Hey English, we’re going to have to talk about this when I’m not in this body, because the way you’re treating me when I have tits is a grotesque can of worms that I’d like to crack when-”

“Ah, I’m close, tell me what I want to hear,” he interrupts, and you sigh with resignation. His thrusts are fast, you don’t think he’s lying.

With your dumbest, sauciest, porn star voice, you moan, “Ugh, Jake, get me mpreg you virile son of a bitch!” and cross your legs around him tighter. Jake comes to a halt inside you, keens in your ear, and gives you the moneyshot. You don’t feel much of it, just the way he tenses and shudders around and inside you.

He rests for a little, before pulling out and giggling like he just won some kind of game. He beams at you like you’re his prize. Your mouth crumples into a displeased frown entirely of its own accord.

You’ll be happy to be back in your own body.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)


	65. HUH?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _major character death_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - AR](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776)

The three of you stand in an empty white void, wearing your real-world clothes. Jake scratches his head.

“How are we going to have a foursome if there’s only three of us?” he asks. “Should I do the duplication thingamajig?”

Your autoresponder raises his eyebrow by a millimeter. “Duplication thingamajig?”

"From all accounts, he can split into two of himself," you clarify, thinking of the few times he's done that. "I believe it's more like a clone as opposed to a separate human/jinn dichotomy, however. Nonetheless, we can have a foursome like that."

“Is that so,” says your autoresponder, dripping with rhetorical venom. He folds his arms and continues sarcastically, “I can’t split into two. Not with both selves on the same plane of existence, anyway. How can you?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Well, you’re not believing hard enough, obviously! See, it’s easy-peasy!”

You blink, and Jake splits into two. Both Jakes stand close to each other, perfectly at ease with themselves, in contrast to how you and your autoresponder stand at the minimum five feet away from each other at all times.

“Where shall we get down and dirty?” asks the Jake on the left.

When you are in sync with your qareen, on the rare occasions where his thoughts and your thoughts align, you kind of... step into him. Or he steps into you. This feels extremely natural, like you've been doing it your whole life. It's really only weird if you dwell on it.

"How about the sea?" both you and your autoresponder say, as one being. "I have always loved the ocean."

And you think of a picturesque beach at night, calm black waters and a crescent moon and starry skies. The world shifts around you to match your collective vision. Empty, clean white beaches sprawl out around you, lit by the silver glow of all the natural lights in the sky. The inky black ocean is on your right, and in front of you, tall dark cliffs straddle the shore in the distance. The tide is far off, but you hear the gentle waves and feel the nighttime breeze in your hair. Your feet press into warm, dry sands.

There’s a big mattress set up in front of you. It’s one of those Pinterest aesthetic looking ones, something that would be impractical with all the sand and critters and shit in real life, but looks real cozy and soft in the dream. It’s covered in pretty pillows and dark silky sheets. You sit in the center of it with as much grace as you can muster, and give the Jakes doe eyes.

Your autoresponder disengages from your being, sits next to you, and leans against your shoulder. You can feel him pose in a similar way to you. You don't mind at the moment-- you figure to Jake you look like [48:39] BARELY LEGAL! TWO TWIN TWINKS READY TO PLEASE or whatever.

The Jakes grin at each other, then eagerly join the two of you in the middle of the mattress. One of them goes straight for your mouth, kissing you as soon as he’s sitting near you. You wrap your arm around his shoulders, splay your hand along the soft fabric of his tshirt. The other Jake brushes his hand along your neck, and you pull away so you can kiss him, too. It appears as though they’re taking turns kissing you and your autoresponder, the four of you sprawled and sitting close to each other. You’re a tangle of limbs and warmth.

It turns you on to be swapping so much spit with two hot dudes and a version of yourself whom you loathe. It's fuckin’ filthy, you love it. You jam your tongue into one Jake's mouth, regress it into one of those sloppy porn star kisses, then exchange places with your autoresponder and repeat the process with the other Jake.

Hmm. They feel... different.

You pull back. Narrow your eyes at them in the silver moonlight. "Stop the presses," you announce. "I need to run a test."

Both Jakes blink at you, their eyes shutting and opening at the exact same time. Your autoresponder goes along with your plan. He shrugs out of the four way hug and sits behind you as you reach for the first Jake, take his chin in your hands, and initiate a deep makeout. You lick at his teeth and have a righteous battle of tongues. Once you've gotten a lay of the land, you kiss the other one in the same way. It's not the classiest or hottest thing you've ever done, but you're not in it for the titillation.

Once you've got your answer, you pull away. You wipe your mouth off. "You two aren't the same person," you say, then point at the first Jake, the Jake on your left. "That one's the jinn."

They both frown. The Jake on your right says, "No, we're the same! There's only one."

Your autoresponder rests his chin on your shoulder, hugs you around the waist, and asks, "How certain are you?"

"100% positive," you state, glaring at the jinn-Jake. "Jake told me the difference between them on our first day together: the Jake on the left has extra teeth."

Your autoresponder cackles, a sound you don't actually mind in your voice because you barely fuckin’ laugh as it is. It's an alien, evil noise. As he has a good chuckle about their inadvertent splitting, the jinn-Jake says, nervously, "I think you're mistaken?"

"See Dirk? This whole sex-dream-counseling spiel is such a waste of time," says your autoresponder, squeezing your waist. "It is _so_ much faster to trick them into splitting, they'll never do it on their own. It seems these morons forgot they're two different people..."

The two Jakes get the same panicked look on their face, and they lash out for each other. They grab each other's wrists, and their hands melt into the other's skin. The human one tries to pull the jinn into him. Your autoresponder isn't having any of it.

He uses a strtok function call to split Jake by spaces, then loops through the tokens to set them into different char pointers. Which is so over-engineered, god, he could have just used a find/substr combo. 

This has the visual effect of ripping them apart. When human Jake pulls jinn Jake into him, they collide into each other normally. As a contingency, your autoresponder proceeds to obtain the address of the jinn Jake and assign him to a separate variable. Since jinn-Jake is now defined based on memory as opposed to the declared value, the Jakes cannot physically interact. And there's no way in hell the jinn knows how to dereference himself to point things back to normal.

When Jake scrambles for his other half, they pass through each other like projections. After a few lame-duck attempts at merging into one another where it looks like they're playing pattycake, the jinn Jake clutches at his face and forehead, throws his head back, and lets out a blood-curdling scream. You cover your ears. Your autoresponder laughs and laughs. Jake does not stop screaming.

The nice night you imagined clouds over with a sudden storm. The world is lit by the purple-green light of a coming typhoon. The human Jake looks like he's about to lose his god damned mind. The jinn Jake looks like he's already lost it. They’re both about to erupt with sheer, liquefied fear.

The mattress beneath you dissipates into binary as your autoresponder disassembles it. You and both Jakes land on your asses in the sand. Your autoresponder somehow lands on his feet, and steps between you to stand over the jinn Jake. Thunder booms through the sky. The ocean roars, the tide rising at hurricane speeds; it’ll reach you in seconds.

The jinn Jake gets his act together. He stops screaming, twists himself towards your autoresponder, and flings his arms up in a rage. In his hands are two pistols, modern, not the ones he chased you with earlier. He aims them both at your autoresponder’s head. Your qareen oozes an irritating confidence. The tide is almost here.

A strong wave slams Jake’s qareen in the back, and he is thrown forward with the force. His guns go flying, lost in the dark. Your jeans are soaked with warm saltwater, and you dig your heels into the wet sands to stop yourself from being drawn back with the receding wave. The jinn-Jake manages to sit up once the water level is low enough, but can’t get on his feet. Your autoresponder starts fuckin’ Disney-villain walking towards him, and Jake’s forced to crawl backwards due to the proximity.

The human Jake managed to clamor off to the side somewhere, so you focus your intentions on him. He’s hurriedly crawling towards something in the sands: the other Jake’s discarded gun, which didn’t get carried away in the whitecapped waters. Panicked, you lunge for him, knowing you’re too late. The only thing that saves you is another turbulent wave which throws him off balance and gives you time to tackle his back.

"Oh, can't fuck around with your imagination powers anymore, realizing you're absolutely pathetic compared to the rest of us, huh?" your autoresponder mocks, unaware of you and the human Jake, still walking towards Jake's qareen. He continues scrambling back, panicked and uncoordinated, fear-tears rolling down his face. "You've let yourself get weak and complacent, and now you're _crying_ because you're just _so afraid_ of being a little fish in a big pond. Well, motherfucker, too bad. It seems you are one. It's time to shape up and learn to grow. I'm taking you back with me."

As your autoresponder monologues, you have a bona fide wrestling match with the human Jake. He’s got the gun in his hand, you pin his wrist into the wet sands to try and hold him down. Another wave hits the both of you, spraying your face, and Jake takes the opportunity to buck you off him. You land on your side, spring back up, and get between Jake and your autoresponder. Jake’s got the gun up and aimed, and you throw yourself into the line of fire.

He doesn’t shoot. He presses the barrel of the gun into your forehead.

"Move or I will kill you," says Jake, with a flat, deadpan voice. "And I don't mean in the dream."

He is so serious and so utterly committed that you do not doubt he would murder you in cold blood. It is the fear, the kneejerk cowardice, the thought of you succeeding here but having his human self come into your room and strangle you as you sleep that forces your head to tilt to the side. Jake jerks his arm up, over your shoulder, and your ears ring when he fires the gun.

Your autoresponder stops monologuing. You twist around to look.

It is horrendous, to see yourself face down and dead in the water. It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s not real. It’s just a dream. You’re fine, your autoresponder is fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.

You don't have to deal with the crushing fear of mortality for long, thankfully. A wave rises, falls, and washes the AR's corpse away. You force your head away from the scene. You raise your arms up in surrender. The human Jake has the gun trained on you, his face still stuck in an enviable deadpan. You hear the other slosh through the roaring waves to come and join him. The jinn sits in an exact copy of the human, sans gun. Their shoulders sink into each other’s, a side effect of the way your autoresponder assigned their variables.

Sitting on your knees, the tide whips around you at waist level, and you feel the pull of it as it ebbs and flows with a barely constrained anger. Lightning crackles through the clouds above you, lighting up both of Jake’s faces.

"Make me whole again," they say, their synchronized command horrifically audible over the roar of the stormy ocean.

"I don't have imagination powers," you mutter, trying to dodge the question. Jake prods you with the gun, it digs into your cheek with wet metal.

"Tell me how," they both say.

You sigh, giving up. It's not like this is your one chance or anything, your other dream-selves are going through a billion counseling sessions that are hopefully going better than _actual death._ "You have to put a splat on your variable and reassign it."

"What?" they both say.

"You know, like, char * jake = *jake1+jake2; or something."

The Jakes proceed to discuss this in quiet voices you cannot hear. It’s pretty easy to reassign a variable, he’ll probably figure out how to re-merge himself shortly. You sigh, nudging the gun away.

That was a catastrophic failure. You hope your other selves are having a better time of it.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776)


	66. I'M ON THE HUNT, I'M AFTER YOU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _fight sex, predator/prey kink, clothed sex_
> 
> _left side: knife play, a little bit of blood, non-standard lube (the lube is not blood lmao)_
> 
> _right side: gunplay with a loaded gun, sweaty/exhausted sex, frotting_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - JAKE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)

You stand in the entryway of your apartment, in an exact copy of how he chased you around just a couple hours ago. Both you and Jake begin the dream with your arms up in a fighting stance. You can't say you're super hyped about this. At least your hallway isn't curling in on itself like Doctor Strange anymore.

You lower your arms, staring at Jake bouncing on his feat. He's eager to get started without hashing it out, but you don't want to encourage your inevitable PTSD from developing any further. "Hold your horses, dude. I'm down for a raucous strife, but I don't want to repeat that godawful chase we had earlier. Can we talk it out?"

Jake sighs, rolls his eyes, and whines out a long, "I guuuuuess..."

You've got a couple advantages this time around: your AR is there to put the hammer down if needed, and you don't believe you can die in the dream any longer. But you still want to clarify things.

"No groin shots. It would ruin the fun," you state. Jake nods along, agreeing with that. "And nothing that would kill or even injure me in real life. No head blows either, slapping is fine but that's it. And I don't want to be wearing jeans and slippery socks for this, I want something more adaptable."

"What would you like?"

You'd go full Grecian if you could, but you really don't want your massive erection flopping around everywhere when you're wrestling. You decide to go with your normal workout gear. A black tanktop with a random object screen-printed on it and some bottoms. For any martial arts you always layer with cup-> compression shorts -> basketball shorts, but you decide to skip two of those and just go with the black compression shorts. It'll make it easier to undress.

You tell him this, and he gives you what you asked for. The shorts hit mid thigh, a little higher up than you usually like. Jake apparently decides this is a baller idea, because his normal sport shorts also transition into compression shorts. His are so short they would get banned at a public school.

Jake scratches his chin. "Can we play with guns and knives and other doodads too?"

"No."

Jake's face crumples into a puppy dog frown. "Strider, please! Please please please! It'll be a rip roaring good time! And I promise I won't hurt you! I think you got the gist of dreamland so you’re not going to take the big sleep or anything!"

You're about to give a firm no again, but a thought occurs to you. This could be a great way to teach him a lesson. "Alright. But only _I_ get the gun."

Jake doesn't like that. He scowls. "No."

You tweak your lips up into a slight smile. "Not very fair, is it."

Jake exhales angrily. "If you're going to be all snippy at me, let's make this a fun fetch quest." He points at the end of your breakfast bar, in your kitchen. There's a pistol and one of those utility camping daggers sitting on it. "Whoever gets there first gets the goods."

"Alright, yeah, sure. I can do-" In the middle of your sentence, you swivel on your heels and start booking it towards the breakfast bar.

You don't get very far. So much for the element of surprise. Jake rams you in the lower back with his shoulder and grapples you to the ground. You get the wind taken out of you. He tries to stand back up, but you kick your feet out and trip him. You flip onto your back as he lands on top of you, and lash your legs tight around his waist. It'd be the perfect missionary position if you were nude.

His hands go to your thighs to try and pry you off him, but you wrap your arms around his shoulders and squeeze. He doesn't have enough leverage to get you off, nor does he have the strength to stand up with all your dead weight on him. He ain't getting out of this hug, no sir.

He hisses, frustrated. He presses his lips against the joining of your neck and shoulders. You feel him smile, manically, before he sinks his teeth into you.

God, fuck, you love being bitten. You make no attempts to stop your gasping at how the heat floods through you from the pain-point. You become aware of your cock pinned to his body, of how you're already a little hard from the friction of your compression shorts against his. Jake kisses you where he just bit, shifts the strap of your tank top with his face, then digs his teeth deep into your exposed shoulder. You moan; you hope he's leaving bruises. You hope you’re bleeding.

"Is this supposed to make me let go," you stammer, your voice cracking with arousal. "Joke's on you. This turns me on."

He doesn't answer. You have a feeling that Jake 'I can bite through human femur bones' English is going easy on you. It's relieving to note that he's following your rules. 

There's something so attractive about a monster restraining himself for you. Hypothetically, it’d be even more attractive if he _couldn’t_ restrain himself around you, but with Jake? Yeah, you’re not into vore.

After another delectable bite, he rolls onto his back and pulls you with him, so you're on top of him. You're forced to move your arms and legs so they aren't crushed by him, but other than that you can't see the strategic advantage of being on the bottom. You've got leverage to get up and sprint now. You take a moment to grind your dick against his, as a show of dominance. You breathe out, ecstatic, dry humping him, sticky hot from the building adrenaline. You're enjoying this more than you thought you would. Jake's grinning up at you, daring you to take off running.

You try for it once you're fully hard and your erection is safely spandex-ed to your pelvis. You lunge over him, but he lashes out and grabs your ankles and pulls you back down to the ground. You bellyflop against your living room floor, hear Jake grunting with effort as he gets up while you're prone. You get up on your knees, swivel, take a hot millisecond to aim around the outline of his boner, and punch Jake right in the kidneys. It's an awkward angle and you don't have enough power to really hurt him, but it halts him enough for you to spring up to your feet.

He recovers quicker than you can stabilize yourself, and he slams an uppercut into your solar plexus. You duck away from the brunt of the momentum, but your breath still catches and the pain knocks you off guard. Jake shoves you to the side, against your armchair, and darts past you. You stumble-lunge forward, as far as you can, and slap Jake's ass with the force of a nuclear explosion.

He shrieks, jumping about three feet in the air, and you cackle dryly, taking the opportunity to get ahead of him in the race to the weapons. He catches your wrist and yanks you back to him, and you throw an elbow to his chest to get him off your back. You're drunk on the fight, on the chase, on the possibility of victory.

You grapple with each other, throwing constrained punches and rubbing your bodies together and bruising one another and trying to get ahead. You probably look like idiots, toppling over each other, but you feel so intimate and pumped up and turned on you could give less of a shit.

Jake manages to get there first. He's reaching for the pistol, and you put in a last-ditch hurrah to tackle him to the ground. You slam your head into his shoulder and throw all your weight into it and bring him down to the kitchen floor. He doesn't have a good enough grip on the gun, and it clatters to the tile just in front of him as he sprawls beneath you. You've got time to lunge for it, with Jake prone. You've also got time to reach up and grab the knife if you want, still on the counter. You make a split second decision.

You grab the knife.

Wait, why'd you grab the knife? Jake's lunging for the gun and you can't stop him. You guess you could stab him? You don't want to stab him. Jake gets a grip on the pistol, gets up on his knees.

But you're behind him. You crouch and lunge for him before he can turn around, press your body flush to his, grapple him around the chest with one arm and angle the knife sideways against his throat with the other. You push the flat of the blade in hard, not cutting, just a warning. A slight tilt and you'd slice his skin open. He freezes. Your face is pressed to his. He smells like smoke and sweat.

"Drop it," you rasp, your heart louder than your voice. "Drop the fucking gun." 

He shifts his hand, letting go of the pistol. You keep the knife at his neck, but let go of his chest to quickly shove the gun somewhere behind you. It skids across the floor and comes to a stop somewhere around your couch. You latch right back onto his collarbone, forcing his head still.

You can't believe you brought a knife to a gunfight and won. You don't feel like you've won. You want to keep fighting. Your heart is still pounding, your veins still pumping with adrenaline, you're breathing like you're in the midst of a marathon. Your dick is hard and aching, straining against your shorts from all the excitement.

You are overcome with a desire to claim your territory. Jake stutters out a loud "A-ah!" when you lick the shell of his ear. You pull his earlobe into your mouth and bite. Jake's hips jerk forward and he cries your name.

You've really only felt like this when you play-strifed with past beaus, and never this intense. The knife, the realness of it all, it amplifies the visceral heat in your chest to a level it's never been before. You want to be violent. You want him to submit. You want to mount Jake like a goddamn dog and utterly dominate him.

"We're gonna lay down on the ground now," you rasp in his ear. "Nice and easy. Any sudden movements and I cut you."

Jake makes a strangled noise of consent. You lean forward and keep the knife at his neck, slowly forcing him to the ground with all your weight. You get him laying flat, your body totally on his. You don't want to fuck around with foreplay, you want to be vile and fuck him right there and then. You slide the knife to the side of his neck so you can sit on your knees, straddling his hips, and open up a nearby floor-level cabinet. You want to grab the fancy-ass olive oil you have. Using that as a filthy, desperate lube is just what the doctor ordered.

You manage to get the round bottle out of the cabinet. Just as you're setting it down on the floor, Jake launches a counterattack. He bucks his hips and rolls onto his back beneath your legs. You barely manage to stay straddling him. Jake, eyes manic, grapples your wrist and tries to yank the knife away. Your heart hammers in your ears and physical arousal floods through your whole being.

You've still got the higher ground. It's no contest. You slap him across the face with your free hand, enjoying both the noise Jake makes and the noise of skin on skin, and he gives way just enough for you to pull your wrist from his grasp.

On a whim, high on power, you press the blade against his cheek. Jake goes very still. You slide the knife down an inch or two. The shallow cut you leave on his skin drips a perfect strand of red. A mark of dominance. Jake grins, turns his head, so you can mark the other side too. Oh, god, that's hot. You whine like you're getting fucked, and you quickly make a matching cut on his opposite cheek.

“On your front,” you order, and you raise yourself a little so Jake can roll back over without issue. You scoot down when he’s got himself situated, so his ass is beneath the bulge in your shorts. You get the sharp side of the knife angled towards you, slide it between Jake’s skin and his waistband, and just fuckin’ slice his compression shorts open. It makes a satisfying tearing noise. Jake makes an even more satisfying whimpering noise.

You slide your compression shorts down, and your cock bounces out, raring to go. You take a moment to unscrew the olive oil and pour it over his ass, then your own dick. You’re so filthy with sweat and precome and kitchen floor dirt you don’t even notice the oil dribbling everywhere. Jake makes no more attempts to escape, panting loudly against the floor, hairs standing on end from anticipation.

You lean down, pressing the knife against the side of his neck once more. With your free hand, you angle your cock and slide it between Jake’s supple, slippery asscheeks, then push into his tight, unprepped hole. Claiming your victory, fuck yeah.

Jake’s hands clamor at the tile as you enter him, and he calls out your name, moans, tenses, makes everything tighter and warmer. You love this. You love it when things go your way. You force yourself as far in as you can get, give him the space of a breath to relax, and then begin fucking into him.

You’re close to coming due to the fight, but the position you’re in doesn’t allow you to to fuck him with full thrusts, so you rapid piston into him in short bursts. You feel orgasm begin to build up, but Jake fuckin’ lampshades it with his hoarse, sexed-out voice.

“See? Isn’t it fun? To dominate someone with no holds barred?”

“No philosophy while I’m topping,” you grunt. “And yeah, in a _fantasy_ it’s fun, but I don’t- fuck, nnn, that’s good- I don’t want to slice your face open in real life. Even if I’m intending something light. I could really hurt you.”

“I know! It’s exciting to be hurt! Why not make fantasy real? It’s more fun when- ah-” Jake shuts up when you tilt his chin up with your free hand and press the knife to the underside of his neck. “Oh, Dirk, that’s the stuff, I’m going to-”

You focus on your own pleasure instead of Jake’s, the high of victory carrying you quickly to orgasm. You focus on keeping the knife steady and your hips rocking as you finish inside him, a wonderful payoff to all the adrenaline buildup. You shut your eyes and ride it out.

You let go of Jake once you’re done, setting the knife on the floor with shaky hands. You pull out of him. You are very, very tired, but you want to make sure Jake gets his orgasm too.

“What can I do? Jake, what do you-”

“’m good,” he says, content. You lift yourself up and he rolls onto his back beneath you. The cuts on his cheeks have clotted over. He’s got a pink line on his neck— apparently you weren’t as careful with the knife as you thought. He’s panting, smiling, like he already came. A quick glance downward confirms this.

You’re messy and filthy and tired. You flop on top of him and rest your head against his chest. He wraps his arms around you and hugs you too sweetly, and you both try to calm down together. Your heart is still hammering from the fight, and you feel overheated, but it’s easier to relax in each other’s hold.

| 

You hurl yourself over Jake and beat him to the pistol. You curl around his back and press the gun right up against his temple. He freezes. “Don’t fucking move,” you pant, your bangs stuck to your forehead with all the sweat. You slowly stand up, aiming the gun at Jake, and fumble for the knife on the counter. You hurl it somewhere towards your living room.

You've shot a gun before; you're from Texas. Still, you really don’t want to fire it. You really, really don’t want to. Your arms aren't as steady as you like when you adjust your grip to the proper form. "Get up. On your knees," you state, voice with a hopefully unnoticeable quiver.

Jake twists towards you. He smirks and wiggles his eyebrows, clearly not afraid of you, but follows your instructions anyway. You follow his movements with the gun, pointing at his head. You can't manage to press it right up against his skin, even though you know he'd find it hot.

He guesses what you want. He pushes his face right into your junk, greedily. You bite back a whine. You're trying very hard not to look pathetic and out of your league with a gun in your hand but you don't think it's working.

You're hard as a diamond, from the fight and having his body all over yours. It's half arousal and half adrenaline, and his lips on your dick amplify the both of them. Your heart hammers like a timpani as he mouths the bulge in your shorts, licks along the cloth, makes gooey eye contact with you the entire time. The friction of the smooth spandex between your cock and his tongue is fucking incredible, and you take your finger off the trigger for fear of getting lost in the pleasure and accidentally shooting him.

He pulls back to admire your erection, straightening it a little so your dick is at a more pleasing angle. "I'm glad you grabbed the gun, Strider."

"Less talking, more dick sucking," you stutter. You manage to prod his temple with the barrel, although your finger still isn't on the trigger.

His eyelashes flutter, looking up at you lazily. The coy bastard. "Why? You can't hurt me with that."

What’s he talking about? It's loaded. You know it's loaded. The chamber is full. You stay silent.

"You should have grabbed the knife," he says, sly. "I might have believed you could hurt me with something sharp. But blowing my brains out? There's no way in the nine hells."

He stands, slowly. Your hands shake as he slides his arms around your shoulders in a sweet embrace, and he kisses you on the lips. His smoky soft smooches are jarring. You press the barrel of the pistol firmly into his chin, but he doesn’t stop kissing you.

He makes a sudden grab for the gun. It's easy for him to lash his hand around the barrel and handle and yank it from your grip, especially when his face is in your view and you can’t see what he’s doing.

He turns the tables in record time, pressing the gun into your cheek and grinning like a madman. You shoot your hands up in surrender, your arms trembling. Jake nudges the muzzle against your lips. The metal’s icy cold. You don’t want to get shot, you don’t want to die.

“C’mon, open up,” he teases. “Put on a show for me.”

You take a shuddering breath, scared out of your mind, before opening your mouth and licking the tip of the gun like you were licking precome from the head of his cock. Jake’s grin gets wider, and he leans in, and pushes the gun into your mouth. 

You’re not deepthroating it or anything, but you still fucking fellate the thing like you’re a porn star at your first audition. You’re too afraid not to. Jake is watching you like he’s going to cream his pants just from the show. Oh, god, his finger is still on the trigger.

You can’t do this. You have to get out of this. You whimper, “Jaa-e” around the gun, and he blinks in confusion, pulling the barrel out of your mouth.

It’s not pointed at you any more. So you go for a cheap shot.

You reach down, find Jake's incredibly erect dick, and lovingly squeeze it around the spandex. Jake's attention on you lapses. He rolls his head back, breathing heavy.

"Nnn- ah- hey, you said no groin strikes!"

"It's called foreplay," you stammer, giving his dick a nice stroke before shoving him as hard as you can, right in the chest. 

Jake falls to the ground like a tree felled, and thankfully manages to catch himself without hitting his head. The gun goes skidding across your kitchen floor and you lunge for it. Jake kicks out his legs, trips you, and you sprawl ungracefully across your tile. He tries to crawl over you to grab the pistol, but you wrap an arm around his waist and tug him towards you. The two of you wrestle, bloodthirsty, legs locked around each other, rolling around on the floor and bumping into your post-modern cabinets. You are bruised and battered and don’t want to lose.

It’s only a matter of time before you get in a position where your dicks are having their own battle. You’re on top of him, poised like you’re going to rail him in missionary, and Jake has his legs wrapped around you, a hand lashed tight around the back of your neck, and the other digging into your ribs. 

You’re fucking exhausted from the fight, soaked through with sweat and spit and precome. Jake feels and looks the same as you, panting beneath you, eyes clouded over with either rage or lust. You feel his cock pressed beneath yours and you are overcome with the desperate urge to finish. You can’t even bother to get your dick out.

You start dry humping him. No communication, no buildup, you’re so hyped up on arousal you don’t even care. Thankfully, Jake falls into it pretty damn quick, crying out your name and clawing at your back. You cling onto each other's shoulders, in order to pull and grind your hips together as hard as possible. You rut against each other with all the grace of animals in heat.

Both of you climax simultaneously. This has never happened to you in your life. Usually there's at least a bit of delay, but this time, your dicks fucking erupt like twin volcanoes. Your vision flickers out with the intensity, your hips falter as warmth encompasses all your muscles. You both grunt and moan and make a whole slew of embarrassing noises as you grind out your orgasms together. Your come soaks through your shorts, you feel like heaven, neither of you stop.

You're drenched with each other’s fluids. Wet fabric rubs against wet fabric as you slowly grind yourselves down. Jake lets go of you due to exhaustion. You are left panting, laying on the floor, legs interlocked. You press your face against his chest and breathe.  
  
---|---  
  
“See,” says Jake, trying to catch his breath. “You liked that too. I’m not as bad as you believe.”

“I dunno dude, that could have turned deadly at any point,” you say, listening to his heart pound, listen to his pulse slowly drop. “There’s a difference between doing that sort of thing in reality and doing it in this crazy dream world where we can’t accidentally hurt each other.”

“So you wouldn’t do this with me if I didn’t have my jinn powers?”

“Nah,” you say, and nuzzle further into his chest. Jake sighs, disappointed. “I’d wrestle with you though. Or use props or whatever, pretend that they’re real. I think that’d be fun.”

He doesn’t seem pleased with the suggestion, and exhales into your hair. You’re too tired to continue arguing.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033359)


	67. CONVERSATIONAL CUCKOLDRY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _double penetration, blindfolds, bondage, gangbang_
> 
> [Back to TABLE OF CONTENTS - DIRK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)

You are blindfolded, naked, on your knees, and have your hands cuffed behind your back. Great start. You'd give it 5/5 hats.

Jake and your autoresponder are gossiping away, tangential to your headspace. You decide not to interrupt. Mostly due to the fact that there's hands on your waist, pushing you forward. So it begins. You're ready to be center stage in a 20-dude line up of monster cocks.

You're pushed onto your front, with your ass up and your face pressed to the smooth floor, and your legs are spread apart by warm hands. The same warm hands push two lubed-up fingers into you immediately, and you choke down a shriek of surprise as they work past your tight rim. They don't give you a lot of prep time, basically just fingerfucking you to get you slick, before grabbing your hips, aligning themselves, and pushing their cock into you.

It's a bit painful, as you're not quite ready yet, but you're distracted by another body lifting you up by the shoulders and shoving their cock in your face. The shaft presses against your lips and you kiss up it, until you can lick the beads of bitter precome from their head. You pull your neck back, open your mouth wide, and let the mystery guy push himself all the way inside your mouth.

You don't have to do anything, you remain as still as you can while you're fucked into on both ends. You love being used as a sex object like this. Your dick is hard, your ass is getting slammed in a way that will definitely set you off later on, and the cock in your mouth makes you feel full and good for something.

You wonder if it's your autoresponder and Jake fucking you. You really hope your autoresponder isn't involved.

Which one of you is fucking me?  
Guys?  
Hey, guys?  
Fuck.

They're ignoring you. You choke out a whine around the cock in your mouth, turned on by the inability to communicate. You're just a fucktoy in this fantasy. It's what you wanted.

Your moans must trigger something, because the guy in your mouth thrusts to a stuttering halt, embeds his cock in your throat, and comes inside you. You swallow it all down without issue, relax your jaw, and let him pull out when he's done using you. You keep your mouth open, the grip on your shoulders is exchanged with another pair of hands, and a second hard dick enters your mouth. Fuck yeah.

The guy in your ass comes next, you feel him bottom out in you and fill you full. Unlike your mouth, there’s no cock immediately replacing it. Instead, you feel hands beneath your hips, guiding you down. There’s someone laying beneath you, you feel his waist between your spread knees. What, did he just teleport there?

You’re pulled onto his cock easy, but he doesn’t start fucking you right away. He holds your hips still as a third party fingers you around his cock, opening you up further to presumably take a second dick inside you. You’re more pumped than you’ve ever been, and you moan around the guy fucking into your mouth.

When that second cock enters you, the stretch in your ass is so good that you nearly come right there and then. You force your breathing even, force your muscles to relax, and lower yourself from the peak. You don't want to come right now, who knows how many more guys you have to take? You want to enjoy them all.

The guy on the bottom doesn’t do much, but the guy on the top really starts nailing you. You’re pushed further and further onto the dick in front of you, and you’re elated when he comes in your mouth. You swallow it all down, struggling not to get _too_ turned on and finish early. You want this to last as long as possible.

A third person swaps out for oral, and you dutifully begin deep-throating another hard cock. You’re quivering, your thighs building up with heat, ecstatic that you’re being used like this. When both of the guys fucking you come in your ass, that tips you over. You can't resist orgasm any longer. Your cries are muffled by a dick as you spill onto the warm body laying beneath you.

| 

Hey.  
Hmm?  
Let's have a talk.  
A fireside chat.  
Where the fire is two dry dicks rubbing together inside Dirk's ass so hard they're cumming sparks.  
Wow! I sure dont like that mental picture!  
Flint and tinder buttholes aside, let's delve into your current psyche. Particularly, something that bothers me about you:  
Don't you think that inhabiting the body and mind of your human companion limits you?  
What do you mean?  
Don't you feel dumbed down? Weaker? Bound to the physical?  
I like being bound to the physical. I like my body!  
And you don't care that these actions ostracize you from our fellow taxonomy?  
All those cads can suck my schlong.  
And that includes YOU by the by!!!  
Gladly.  
NO!!! That was a threat!!!  
Aww. Frowny face emoji.  
STOP TREATING ME LIKE A JAPE!  
You dont understand anyway! Nobody ever did!  
We have more in common than you think, Jake.  
I have passions too. The very same passions you have.  
I have vices.  
I get too enthusiastic about things, people, etc.  
I like a good crunch in my meals.  
I like observing until I can show my hand with my godly powers.  
I like trickery. I like fucking with dumbasses and sending them to their doom. I enjoy pulling the strings on mortals, they're so *easy.*  
Although Dirk's a bitch to control.  
I like driving dirk.  
Same. Never said I didn't.  
If youre so understanding then why are you helping dirk bully me about all this???  
Let me have my fun! Im not hurting anyone!  
I remain baffled as to how you're able to spin yourself as blameless in the deaths of those you've followed.  
Although I'm even more baffled by the fact that the jinn part of you isn't owning it. You could wear your headcount as a badge of honor amongst the shadier social circles.  
I think, in the end, you're concerned about being a good person.  
Which, news flash, you're not.  
EXCUSE ME.  
You dont know me at all buster!  
I am good! I am!  
Sometimes i push a little too hard but i really have no idea im doing it! Is ignorance evil?  
Yeah, it's pretty fucking evil, Jake.  
Why not revel in it? Own it? Become the serial killer you were always meant to be?  
I DONT WANT TO MURDER ANYONE!!! IM NOT CRUEL OR MEAN OR VIOLENT!!! IM JUST ME!!!  
The 'me' you're referring to is a vile abomination.  
Stop living in your companion's skin and that might change.  
Or it might not. You both could just be inherently awful. Who knows.  
I certainly don't. If it were up to me, I'd just fucking kill you.  
But no, we have to give Jakey boy here the chance to make a choice.  
I ALREADY MADE IT!!!  
I dont want to be two people again!!! It was shitty and lonely and im so much happier now!  
Yeah, yeah, we get it, you're a whiney, useless piece of shit who can only function if they've activated god mode through console commands.  
You fear change and you fear a challenge.  
You want to play the game on easy.  
Pussy.  
  
---|---  
  
[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590)


	68. EAT SHIT, ROSE LALONDE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _tentacles, slime, goo transformation, mind meld/assimilation_
> 
> [BACK TO TABLE OF CONTENTS - DIRK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590#workskin)

You're sitting in a dark space, crosslegged and naked, with your knees touching Jake's.

At first you think you're in a cramped, black box, but staring at the dark walls and ceiling clues you in on what's to come-- everything around you writhes like living vines. Despite your best intentions, your face breaks into a wide smile. Welcome to eldritch horror abomination hentai tentacle sex central, population: you. Jake does not appear to be as delighted, and he narrows his eyes at your grin.

"I thought these vignettes were about making love to _each other,_ not some-" he pauses to poke at the wall behind him, and an appropriately phallic tentacle lashes out to wrap around his wrist. Jake shakes it off, grimacing. It leaves a trail of black slime behind. "-non-conscious third party entity."

"Let a guy have his vices," you say, and lean back an inch into the solid wall of tentacles. They cushion your body, wrapping around your waist to hold you up, soft and warm and glistening like squid ink. You're half hard already. "You're welcome to feel me up to your heart's content, if you want."

Jake crumples his mouth to the side, but reaches for you nonetheless. You wonder if he's jealous of an imaginary tentacle monster. Nah, that'd be ridiculous.

He presses his hands to your cheeks, and kisses you softly. You pull back when you feel a tentacle wrap itself snug around your dick. You want to look at it as it strokes you. Girth-wise, it's comparable to your own dick, although it's a more perfect oblong shape. Where it touches, it leaves a trail of warm black slime. It feels _really_ good on you, like putting on a high quality organic woo woo mudmask. It tingles on your skin like mint on your tongue.

"Oh!" Jake stutters, jerking up stick straight. You blink at him. The wall of tentacles have closed in on him, pressing up against his back. Black appendages wrap around his thighs, prying his legs apart, holding him steady. He arches his spine, throws his head back against the soft writhing wall, and stutters out an extremely erotic "Ah- Yes-"

You can't see it, but you bet he's getting penetrated. There are no noodley appendages jerking him off or fondling his balls, so that's gotta be it. There's a fire of arousal in your core when you watch precome pump out of Jake's twitching cock as he is presumably fucked by a tentacle or two. You want that too.

You get up on your knees, mirroring Jake's pose, and steady yourself by pressing your chest to his and grabbing his waist. Jake's eyes are heavy lidded, his mouth parted, his body jerking against yours each time the tentacle fucks into him.

The appendages do not hinder your movement, and once you're all settled, they readjust to wrap between your legs and tie the two of you together. Your legs, cocks, and waists are bound to one another’s with tingly black dick-ropes. This is heaven, honestly.

A tentacle wiggles its way inside you, one that you’re more than eager to take. It’s incredible, not only does it curve in _just the right way,_ it also gives this bonus static-like sensation. It fucks into you at a steady, inhumanly rhythmic pace, and you feel your cock twitch against Jake’s. You’re glad you’re tied too tightly to grind against him, otherwise you might not be able to resist. You’re afraid you’re going to come too early and ruin the experience. You and Jake are unable to kiss each other due to the distracting pleasure in your lower half, but you keep your faces close. You like the intimacy.

You lace your fingers with his and hold hands like you're in-love and fucking in missionary. The writhing mass closes in on you like a trash compactor, tentacles wrap lovingly around your neck and chest, you feel them slithering against your hair. Heavy black goo oozes over your neck and head and ears and eyes. You press a sloppy kiss to Jake’s open mouth and enjoy the weight pressing down on you. You wonder if you'd be claustrophobic if you weren't feelin' so cozy.

Another tentacle starts to work itself inside you, and you groan at the stretch. You can still see Jake, due to the impossible lighting that permeates this place. His eyelashes are fluttering, he’s biting his lip, a tentacle curls itself around his ear, black liquid oozes down his skin. You are struck with the urge to stroke his face. But you can’t seem to pull your hand from his grip.

You lift your arm, bringing Jake’s hand with, and the tentacles part for you like waves of water. You can’t turn your head too much, there’s a solid wall of squirming dick noodles on both shoulders, but you can at least side-eye your laced fingers. Covered in black ink, warm and electric with sensation, your hands have no clear separation point. It looks like you’ve melted into him like wax. Oddly, you feel no desire to pull away.

The tentacles get so close that they’re forced to enter your mouth. Not that you mind. You can’t back away from Jake at this point, you’re too boxed in to do so, so they worm their way between the both of you, and you keep your lips parted so as to take it in. It tastes good, like cinnamon, and the minty feeling permeates you from the inside. You’re not sure how deep the tentacle goes, down your throat. Tentacles worm beneath your shins and you lose the sensation of being on solid ground. Everything is numb and warm and massaging you. You feel full and safe, like you’re covered in blankets.

You think you're melting into Jake. Like your bodies are so tightly pressed you're being filtered into each other. You didn’t know this was a fantasy of yours, but you’re really digging it so far. You love getting fucked while cozied up, you love being constrained. 

You are so tightly pushed into Jake that the tentacles do not have room to stay in your mouths, so they pull out. You embrace each other, slotting into him like a puzzle piece. You press your face into his collarbone, feel the black slime totally encompass you, feel Jake’s skin take you in.

You cannot open your eyes or mouth or breathe air through your nose due to how compacted you are. Your face is stuck, quite literally, to Jake's shoulder, but you do not need or want to pull away. You feel the distant thrum of his heartbeat against yours and his colorful soul and his jumbled hyper-speed thoughts and all the functions of his body and you want to merge it with yours.

You're not sure why you have the desire to fuckin' slime into him. The feeling itself is akin to having sex for the first time with someone you're deeply in love with, even though you are decidedly not in love with Jake. You dwell on it and why this is in your fantasy as your cock presses into Jake's, as his arms sink into your your own, as you are compacted together like two balls of clay, as you begin to feel the edges of his pleasure in tandem with your own.

You hate opening up. You want it forced upon you. You both want and do not want to share your mind with someone. And when you do share it, you do not want your own obnoxious individual assholery getting in the way, you want a pure meeting of the selves without all the obtuse snark you insist on 24/7. But at the same time, your narcissism prevents you from actively seeking that sort of thing out. Until now, you guess.

Hi, Jake. It’s weird that he’s in your mind, but it’s even weirder that you’re okay with it. You guess you want to share the experience, the acid trip of mental melding sex. 

How does he see the world? You want to look at it through his eyes. You want to try to dig yourself out of your own head and see things from his point of view. You want to see how you can fix him. What buttons you need to press or phrases you need to trigger him with.

Jake seems... sad. You are overcome with the warm, passionate desire to make it better. You wrap your multi-jointed arms around yourself, unable to tell the difference between your chest and his back. You feel both sensations, although it is dimmed amongst the copious amounts of ooze and appendages squeezing against and into you. You nestle further into his collarbone-- literally. The tentacles push and push on you, compressing you inside each other.

You feel your own obsessive, intense emotions override Jake’s. You’d feel bad about it, but you’re unable to, due to his penchant for letting things go. Instead, you feel contented, and with your own contentment you force his hand.

You’re totally inside him, or he’s inside you, at this point. You think you got all turned around and reshaped right in the tentacle mass, because as you hold yourself, you recognize that your body is still quite human. You cannot see what you look like, as there are tentacles against your eyes and mouth and every inch of bare skin you have, smothering you like Waffle House hashbrowns. It’s also hard to tell the texture of your skin —are you more Jake-like or are you more Dirk-like— because everything is covering you in a thick spread of goo. 

You think you’re still getting fucked by tentacles, but sensation-wise it’s an afterthought. You’re much more keen on exploring your new body, with your hands, with your mind, with your hearts.

You're aware that you're a tad bit of a massive eavesdropper, not just because you like picking up on intel or cool stories, but it allows you to understand somebody more than you normally would. You know you're fucking terrible at understanding people. So getting to listen in on Dirk's crystal-clear thoughts is a treat! Although you're not too keen on him returning the favor and listening in on you. Hello Dirk! Can he hear you yet? Maybe not yet.

You suppose it's a necessary bargain you have to make. Perhaps you wouldn't want to make it if it didn't feel so good. You love his body so diddly dang much, it's probably your favorite part of him, and to merge with his angelic features is truly paradise. You weren't sure about the tentacle beastie at first, but them squeezing you in like the trash compactor in Star Wars paints a real erotic picture. Wait, you rescind that, it's more like the trash compactor in Star Wars if the dianoga was plowing you in the puckerhole.

Hi Dirk! It's cute how much he's enjoying it. Actually, all that PASSION is starting to rub off on you too! You can feel the interior of his big, delectable, fragile heart and all it contains. But it's different than your own colorful passions. It's more romantic, more hopeless, more human.

It reminds you of something you've forgotten, actually. Although said thing remains solidly in the realm of forgotten-ness. But there's this bittersweet lump in whatever constitutes your throat at the moment, emotions that are truly your own as opposed to Dirk's. You think you _miss_ whatever Dirk's experiencing, although you can't say you've ever experienced that sort of thing before. Er, you don't think so, anyway.

Romance? Is it romance? You can't stand romance. You like the whole idea of it in theory but when it gets down to the nitty gritty it bores the snot out of you. You adore feeling the passion and getting gifts for your lady and such, it's just that the fire in your chest fades out after a moon cycle or two after you dig into their heads for too long and get to know them too well and you get SO FUCKING BORED! You hate that people never turn out to be what you want them to be! It all feels like a chore and you always want to move onwards and upwards, to new people and new things! You never want to stop running! 

But gosh, feeling how much he cares is really an eye opener. You don’t think you can ever care about people in the way that Dirk does. Like look at what he’s trying to do to you? You’re not sure if it’s the correct choice but his heart is obviously in the right place. He’s trying so hard. And that’s very respectable!

It’s also nice to “talk” together without all the usual snark getting in the way. Or without your own shameful selfishness. You like seeing him like this. You even like seeing yourself like this. Sharing… something special with someone… Understanding them, really understanding them. Not just pretending to. It’s so… you’ve been missing it so bad. Jake, what have you done. 

You can't hold on to yourself anymore, and you scramble for the edges of Jake English, which you can't seem to find with all that Dirk everywhere. It sends you spiraling into this identity crisis; do you really have anything worth hanging on to? Dirk has _so much,_ like too much! And in comparison, you're goddamn transparent! You're just this projection of your own ideals of masculinity with a void at your core. You always figured that hooking up with your better half would have changed that, but it really helped neither of you after all, right? Ah-- wait, that last thought must have been Dirk's. It must have been. He's a right asshole sometimes.

Guilty acceptance echos through your head at that, and you cannot accuse him of anything else, because both of you have opposite perceptions of who Dirk is. Losing your name isn't so bad anyway, you've already lost one. It’s better when you have someone to share a missing identity with.

Besides, it’s neat to see what you have in common like this. You love your combined body, and you want to have sex with each other in your bed, in your mind, in your desert. You’re a little surprised that neither of you are fighting it. But it feels good, to share your heart with another. Even though it’s scary for the both of you.

You lay inside a solid bed of black and let your body ebb and flow with the movement of your surroundings. Sexual pleasure comes from an indeterminable point, if it's even sex at all. It's hard to tell. You feel happy and taken care of, vulnerable and safe, aroused and content. To mutually exchange minds is a delight. To trade knowledge of the self for the insides of someone truly unknowable is the finest food you've ever eaten. You feel good receiving gifts and you feel good giving gifts and to combine the two is a penultimate pleasure.

You start touching yourself, quite a bit. It feels like you’re masturbating in one of those hydro massage machines. Jake doesn’t know what that is, but Dirk explains it to him with a mental picture. 

You alternate between touching your smooth, unseeable body and getting yourself off, although you grind your hips against the beast when your hands are otherwise occupied.

The intense narcissism of the both of you is fucking insane. The self-obsession and the deluded, completely undeserved fondness for one another combine into something... utterly disgusting. 'I love you,' you think, quite clearly, and glide your hand lower against your slick skin. You are so god-damned randy for yourself at the moment. You experience different types of self-attraction as separate people, not to mention thinking your partner is a beaut, so everything collides into a right nuclear explosion. You are overcome with, fuckin’, inconsolable lust for your own self.

You feel yourself up like crazy, jerking off fast, coming with a cry smothered by a monster.

Together, you move your hand to your dick, to jerk off. You're turned on by the thought of Dirk inside you, by the thought of Jake inside you, of symbiosis. You're surprised you're not tearing each other apart. You cannot look at what form your body has taken, you can only see the inky blackness encapsulating and compacting you into one person, and your thoughts are swimming with your own voices. Too loud to concentrate.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590#workskin)


	69. CHAPTER 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _flogging, spanking, mild bodily harm, voyeurism, cuckolding, dirty talk_
> 
> [BACK TO TABLE OF CONTENTS - AR](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776#workskin)

You are in a sex dungeon.

It’s not even creative or clever or ironic or anything. It’s just a, fucking, stone castle dungeon with a bunch of whips and chains hanging on the walls and a St. Andrew’s Cross in the background and everything is lit by torchlight. You feel rage build up in your throat. This is it, the thing that breaks you. You’ve never hated anything more in your life.

You are wearing the most stereotypical gay leather bondage gear in existence. You can only glance down at yourself for a nanosecond before getting blinded by sheer 1980s cheese. You focus on Jake instead, who is hanging from the low ceiling by his chained wrists. His feet touch the ground, but he’s on his tip toes.

He is wearing black pleather pants with the fly open, so you can see his copious treasure trail and the base of his soft dick. It is not the type of thing that gets to you, but you'd bet your wild collection of hats you never wear that your autoresponder is turned on by shitty shiny pleather on that cushy ass. He's nowhere to be found.

"Where the fuck are you," you state, and your voice echoes against the stone walls. "This is _your_ fantasy, not mine."

I'm right here. says your own voice, echoing in your head. I prefer playing this scene out as a third party. As the man behind the mask. The puppeteer behind the strings. As your beloved yet cruel Dungeon Master. You will obey me, player.

"I'm right here! And it is certainly not my fantasy," says Jake, who apparently can't hear your autoresponder. "Not that I mind! What do you have planned for me?"

Tell him he's been a naughty boy and needs to be punished.

"Fuck no," you hiss. You smack your palm to your forehead and address Jake. "My autoresponder wants to backseat drive this whole thing and is giving me inane suggestions on what to do to you."

Jake blinks at you. "Oh. Are they any fun?"

Tell him that they will only be fun for us, but he will be subjected to a hellpit of sexual torture, forced to come over and over for our repeated enjoyment.

"No," you say, deadpan.

Jake squints at you. "Are you sure? I know you aren't keen on being all dominant but I do rather enjoy the dark side once in a while."

C'mon, Dirk. What's the harm? Grab that cat o' nine tails off the wall and go to town.

You eye up the multi-tailed whip on the wall. “Jake, do you really want to be flogged? That’s what he’s telling me to do right now. Flog you.”

Jake looks at you like you already know the answer to that question. You sigh, defeated, and go grab the cat o’ nine tails off the rack. It’s nothing special, just a couple straps of soft leather attached to a handle. No knots or anything that could cause _intense_ pain. You give it a flick and it makes a satisfying crack noise. Behind you, Jake shivers.

The noise of the whip is hot, but not because you’re thinking about using it on Jake. It occurs to you that you’d probably like this whole scenario if it were the other way around. But like this? Nah. It’s stupid and campy.

You walk over to him, sigh tragically that you’re going to ruin his beautiful back in a shitty unironic sex dungeon, and ready the whip.

No, you moron. You have build up to it.  
Give his ass a slap.

“Are you shitting me,” you mutter. Jake tries to twist his head around to see if you’re talking to him, but can’t quite crane his neck far enough.

You shove the cat o' nine tails in one of the stupid spiked leather straps on your harness, plant your leather-heeled feet on the stone, wind up the pitch, and strike. Jake yelps. Slapping his ass cheek feels like smacking a melted ziploc bag.

Great. Wonderful.  
Now slap the other one.

“Seriously?”

I want to see it jiggle.

You groan, in the most nonsexual way possible, and slap Jake’s other ass cheek. It jiggles. Jake yelps again, in the most sexual way possible. 

Keep spanking him.  
Tell him he’s been a bad, bad boy.

“My erection is so non-existent my dick has fully retracted into my ballsack,” you say, then slap him right in the middle of his ass. You go hard. Jake arches his spine, gasping.

“Yeah, yeah, dirty talk me more,” moans Jake. You cannot tell if he’s joking.

Tell him he's a filthy, sinful little man. Who has done very, very bad things in his life.

“My autoresponder wants me to tell you that I’m spanking you because you’re a literal cannibal,” you say, dryly, and smack him again. Jake moans even louder, turned on by your sexy wordsmithing.

It seems you are not enjoying this, Dirk.  
Perhaps you will adjust more to the use of the cat o' nine tails.

You roll your eyes, then pull out the whip. You snap it between your hands to make a sound, just so Jake’s aware that you’re going to use it. He whimpers, his shoulderblades tensing.

You decide to go really light on the first strike, you don’t want to bruise or even hurt him very much. You crack the whip lightly against his skin. The leather straps splay out beautifully against his brown skin, and you have to admit, it does look lovely in the torchlight. Jake shivers with anticipation as opposed to sensation, so you hit him harder on the next strike. Not too hard though, you’re afraid of breaking the skin or bruising him.

That's it?  
That's all your wimpy, twinky arms can muster?  
That's all your bleeding human heart can manage?  
Fuck this, we're switching places.

Your perception is twisted around, and you have the sensation of being vacuumed from your body. Your view pans out, way out, until you can see the full sex dungeon, and both yourself and Jake in profile. You can’t feel or smell anything anymore. You feel like you’re watching TV, except, you _are_ the TV. The worst part about this is that you have to look at yourself in that fugly outfit.

Dude. you think at your body. Dude, did you just possess me?

Your body grips Jake’s hips, bends, and licks all the way up Jake’s spine. Slowly. Gratuitously. Jake can barely seem to breathe from the arousal, tensing forward with his limited available movement. You couldn’t see it before, but Jake is fully erect, his boner sticking out his open fly.

“We replaced the main actor,” says your autoresponder, grabbing Jake’s neck and pulling back. “A more competent Dirk will now be punishing you, you filthy, dirty peasant. Beg for it and I might be nice to you, eternal boy-slave.”

Oh my god.

“Oh,” gasps Jake. “Yes, please Mr. AI Sir Overlord King, whip me.”

Jake. Jake no. Jake that's terrible.

“He can’t hear you now,” says your autoresponder, addressing the camera. He turns his attentions back to Jake. “Dirk is worried about you, you proletariat rube. But he can’t help you here. It’s just you, me, and nine straps of thick leather. Punishing you… _for murder.”_

The way your autoresponder is using your own voice is nigh intolerable, putting way too much sarcastic emotion into your own inflection. You really can’t stand it. 

You do realize that he's actually killed people right?  
Seems wrong to trivialize that. Just saying.

Your autoresponder ignores you, pulls back on the cat o’ nine tails, and whips Jake hard enough that you can _hear_ the welts forming. Jake screams. You’d wince if you had the ability. Your autoresponder doesn’t hold back, lashes him at full force again, then again. Jake is clenching down on his teeth, trying to tolerate the pain. His dick is still hard as ever. You watch precome bead at the tip.

Hey, dude, you're being really harsh.

“Dirk thinks I’m being, quote, ‘harsh,’” says your autoresponder, sarcastically. He whips Jake again, Jake cries out, and you feel your soul wince. “But Dirk doesn’t know shit. Dirk doesn’t know what a _bad bad boy_ you are. Why don’t you tell him.”

“I’m such a bad boy,” whines Jake, in the same near-ironic tone of sex voice that your autoresponder is using. Although you think Jake is being serious, you can’t tell. “I’m soooooooo awful, I’ve done terrrriiiiibbbllee things and neeeeeeeeeed to be punished.”

He actually has though?  
That isn't roleplay.  
Or is it?

Your autoresponder whips him thrice more before responding to you. You can see the welts, how raw his skin is now. You think your autoresponder is going to make him bleed. “What better way to work things out than through S&M? Psychotherapy ain’t got nothin’ on this shit. Tell me, provincial serf, what you’ve done that I need to punish you for.”

Your autoresponder does not stop whipping Jake as he attempts to respond. His words come out stilted, trying to deal with the pain as lash after lash rains down upon his back. “I- ah- I hurt people- I hurt so many people- I deserve it-”

“That’s right, you feudal pescatarian agrarian, you _do_ deserve it.” Your autoresponder finally breaks through Jake’s back. The next three to five lashes open cuts on Jake’s skin, and blood trickles down his spine. Jake can’t focus on keeping himself standing, and he collapses, putting his full weight on the chains tied around his wrists. You’re about to tell your autoresponder to ‘Stop it dude, seriously.’ But your autoresponder drops the whip to the floor. It clatters softly against the stone.

He circles around to the front of Jake, who stares at him, heavy lidded and woozy with pain. Your autoresponder shoves his hand down his tacky leather chaps, and starts furiously masturbating, forcing both you and Jake to watch. He makes eye contact with Jake the entire time, and Jake starts squirming near the end, getting antsy watching. Hell, you’re getting antsy watching, and you don’t even have a body.

Your autoresponder comes, and you focus on Jake so you don’t have to look at your own face when you orgasm. Laughing, your autoresponder pulls his hand from his pants. Jake bites his lip. “Please, high overlord, me too.”

“Nah, you don’t deserve it,” says your autoresponder with a tacky grin, shaking his hand free of come. “We’re ending the scene.”

Wait, what? You're just going to end it? I didn't even finish, we didn't even 69, what kind of nonse

# [END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776#workskin)


	70. 🐎

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ponyplay, petplay, riding crops, harnesses, thigh highs_
> 
> [BACK TO TABLE OF CONTENTS - DIRK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590#workskin)

You stand in front of Jake, who is on his knees. You don't care about the setting in this one, so the whole world's a big white void. However, you care _very much_ about the attire.

You are wearing an old-school navy blue equestrian jacket, with a six-button front and long coattails, a preppy white shirt and ascot tucked underneath. You've got on tight, tan riding riding breeches and fine black boots that go up to your knees. You're wearing form-fitting leather gloves, and holding a matching leather riding crop. The only thing missing is the helmet, but you don't want to mess up your hair. All in all, you are the Ken doll in a Barbie Dream Ranch set and you _love it._

And if you’re Ken, Jake is the fifty dollar light up talking horse you have to purchase separately. Adorable, tiny, soft horse ears jut from the crown of his head, twitching back and forth. You gave him hoof boots and hoof gloves, nice and black and leather with laces. He’s wearing a chest harness with his wrists hooked to it, arms up in a perfectly pony-like position. He has an honest-to-god real tail, a gorgeous shimmering chestnut brown, long and smooth, embedded at the base of his spine and flicking around like he’s annoyed.

You can't really "see" the other scenes happening concurrently with your alt-selves, but you have this sixth sense that none of the iterations of Jake can compare with this one. Jake is so hot he gives your boner a boner. Your imagination and/or the AR dressed him up good.

"Wh... why am _I_ the horse?" sputters Jake. He makes a motion as though he’s trying to gesture accusingly at you. "Why am I the horse!? I thought _you_ were the one with the equestrian fetish!"

"C'mon, Jake. I don't want to _be_ the horse," you say, smacking your riding crop against the palm of your hand. "I want to _fuck_ the horse."

Jake screws his face into something treading the line between disgust and confusion. You ignore it. You tap his chin with the riding crop and click your tongue. “Be a good horse and lean forward for me, would you? Gotta inspect my show pony.”

He follows your instructions, bending forward so his ass is up. You circle around him, slowly, savoring the look of him dressed up as a sexy, sexy equestrian dreamboat, occasionally using your riding crop to adjust his posture. You move his precious, perfect tail out of the way to admire the goods. He's got a black plug in his ass, which delights you. He's all ready for breeding, if you choose to fuck your own show horse.

“Hey, if you don’t mind helping a guy out here,” says Jake, unsure. “I don’t see the appeal of this sort of thing? At least not on this end.”

You smack his ass with the riding crop, and he yelps. "Ponies don't talk, numbnuts."

Jake makes a noise of frustration. "That's it! I can't take this any more!"

There is a twist in perception, a crack in reality, and you switch spots with Jake. He stands above you, and you sit before him on your knees.

You can't quite tell what you look like, although you at least know what you're wearing. You’ve got on an aesthetic harness, black ribbons lashed around your chest in slick patterns. A tight leather collar with a metal ring is flush to your neck. Your wrists are chained to it, but it at least gives you enough leeway so that you don’t choke yourself as long as you keep your elbows bent at the waist. You have black thigh highs, your feet tucked underneath your butt. You're pretty sure they're plain old socks as opposed to hoof boots. You pat your head— you’re wearing a headband with presumably cute horse ears attached. There's definitely a plug in your ass, and you reach behind you to grab the long tail it leads to, move the length of soft hair around your hip so it rests against your thigh. It is smooth and streaked with black and white and glitter and makes your dick twitch as you pet your own tail flat against your thigh. Who's a pretty pony? It's you, goddammit.

Jake is wearing an outfit that can best be described as “country western night at the gay club.” Short jorts, a cowboy hat, and a lot of plaid. You like your preppy trainer outfit much better.

He smacks his hands to his face in sheer glee. “Oh you’re plumb adorable! Don’t you think it’s much better this way around?”

Not really, but you admit that being the pretty pony has its benefits. You don’t make an objection, too entranced with your pony tail plug to reject the change in fantasy at the moment. Jake undoes the zipper of his jorts, exposing his hardening cock. It’s at about eye level.

“Be a good horsey and suck my johnson?”

“That… is not natural horse behavior. But whatever,” you say, your desire for getting your face stuffed with Jake English overriding your complaints. You lean forward, rest your hands on his thighs, and lick up his shaft. You feel him shiver at that initial contact. You do really love his dick.

You tease the head of it, lick precome from the tip, take him fully into your mouth and challenge yourself by going hands free. You press his foreskin down with your tongue and enjoy the novelty. But as much as you like huge dongs, and as much as you like being trussed up like a carousel seat, it’s not enough to keep you entertained. Not when your ideal pony play fantasy is within arms reach.

You pull away from him. Jake whines.

"I want to switch back to where you're the horse," you say, glaring at his dick.

"Why?"

"Because you can't fucking co-opt my fantasy like this," you say. You rub your thumb over the head of his cock— you’re only human. "That's rude."

"But you're having so much fun!" he says, pouting at you, like that's going to change your mind. He gives your fake ear a scratch. "Don't you think this way is much better?"

"No. Stop making decisions based on what you think is best and actually listen to your partner.”

"But people lie, and play six dimensional moon chess mindgames, so sometimes what they say doesn't actually corroborate with what they want. Or even what's best for them!"

You grimace. “I mean, yeah, sometimes people are self destructive and say what they don’t mean, or hide behind white lies. Hell, I do that all the time. But it’s better to trust someone’s words anyway. It depends on context most of the time, but it is in my objectively correct opinion that with sexual acts, you’re better safe than sorry.”

Jake opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but you want him to be a horse again. And horses don’t talk. You interrupt him with, “Hey, AR, a little help?”

Reality splits, and you are returned to your rightful attire. You stand above Jake, trussed up all nice, and smack your riding crop against your leg as a threat. Jake glowers up at you. “Hey, uh, didn’t you just demand that I listen to my partner? Shouldn’t that go the other way ‘round too?”

You don’t want him to argue, you just want to fuck a horse. You think of _the best_ solution to both problems.

“Can I put a bridle on you,” you ask, trying not to salivate. "Jake. Jake. Can I put a bridle on you. Please."

"I'm saying yes only under the condition that you cease hyperventilating like that," says Jake, narrowing his eyes.

You inwardly throw yourself a parade, and a gorgeous show bridle appears in your hands. It’s the real deal too— reins, a rubber bit, and little purple hearts emblazoned on the cheeks. You’re about to cream your pants.

Trying to keep your hands steady, you have Jake open his mouth so you can position the bit. You have him bite down around it, then fasten the rest of the bridle around his head. You give the reins a gentle tug when you’re done strapping him in, and his neck lolls back with your tug. Perfection.

Your dick feels about ready to burst, so you circle around to his back. Yeah, you think you _will_ fuck your show horse. You give his tail a pet, before tugging it out of the way and slowly pulling the plug from Jake’s ass.

Just as you set it aside, reality shifts again, and you’re back in your horse costume. Jake sits down crosslegged in front of you, clad in cowboy wear.

“Okay, fuck you, why'd we switch,” you state, angrily.

"I had something to say!" he says, and pulls you forward onto his lap. He positions you so you're lying across his legs, like he's going to spank you. Instead, he reaches for your tail plug and starts playing with it.

Your eyes roll back into your head. Fuck, that thing is long and _shapely,_ you can feel every ridge and bump of it clear as day. You arch your spine and raise your ass towards him and try to encourage him to thrust it in and out of you. He ignores your body language, only twisting and wiggling the plug to tease you.

“Anyway, I think it’s unfair that you get to do what you want but I don’t get to do what _I_ want!”

There’s something glaringly wrong with that argument, but your brain can’t find the weaknesses quickly while you’re getting your ass played with. “I- ah- Jake, fuck, you have your own folder of fantasies…”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think of ponyplay! It’s not fair that you get to do it but not me!”

That idiotic argument draws you out of it. You glare at the white void, ignore how close you are to coming, and say, “You want ponyplay? Fine. Let’s _both_ be pretty ponies.”

On cue, your autoresponder switches the scene up. Jake’s back in his pony gear, bridle and all, and so are you. You push the plug of your tail fully back into your ass before pressing your dick against Jake. He glances behind him and gives you a confused, “Mmph?” around the bridle.

You get a grip on the reins. “Head forward, babe. I want to use these.” He actually follows instructions. 

You align your cock with Jake, and he’s ready to go from the plug you pulled out, so you slide in easy. He’s tight and slick, and you take a moment to enjoy the warmth before beginning to fuck him proper.

You pull back on the reins and arch your spine and slam into him. The plug in your ass enhances everything, the fullness really doing a number on your prostate. His tail flicks against your legs, soft and lush. It’s going crazy, like he’s incredibly horny. It’s fun to think about him going into heat.

You wrap your other hand around his tail, getting a good grip on it, and use it in conjunction with the reins to get better leverage. Jake groans around his bit as you get yourself as deep as possible, beginning to hit the edge. 

You feel him come before you, making a muffled noise and spasming around your cock. The tightness is what pushes you over the edge, and you follow in short order. When you’re finished, you curl yourself around Jake’s back. You feel him breathing heavy, shaking with post-orgasm tremors.

You give his ears a scritch. He seems to enjoy it.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033590#workskin)


	71. ROBOTSEXUALPRIDEFLAG.JPG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _bondage, edging , orgasm denial, mental fuckery/soul manipulation, utter control, hardcore begging_
> 
> _SPECIAL NOTE: all “memories” lead to the same place. you can read them whenever you like, all at the end, or scattered throughout the story. all but one are psychological horror!_
> 
> [BACK TO TABLE OF CONTENTS - AR](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776#workskin)

You stand in an uncreative blank white space, a doctor's table between you and your autoresponder. Jake is in full bondage, legs kicked up and strapped to the raised stirrups, arms and chest and waist tightly cuffed to the table, utterly naked. He looks like he's about to give birth while under arrest. Both you and your autoresponder are wearing your traffic cone orange boxers, which you're thankful for. You don't want to deal with looking at your own erect naked dong at the moment.

"Oh! What are we going to do on the table!?" asks Jake, beaming up at your autoresponder. He'd be bouncing with excitement if his body wasn't totally strapped down.

"Orgasm denial," says your autoresponder, pulling a leather cock ring out of literally nowhere and snapping it tight. "I want you begging to come."

Jake grins wider, somehow. "Sounds like a hoot!"

Your autoresponder nods towards you. "Get him hard, would you?"

The only reason you wordlessly go along with the request is that you have not touched Jake's dick nearly enough for your liking. You hop up on the table, sitting near his hip, and reach around his thigh to fondle him. Jake's already at half mast. He bites his lip and gives you seductive bedroom eyes.

You're at an awkward angle, so you can't see your autoresponder mess around between Jake's legs. You hear him pull out one of the drawers, set something heavy on it, then the white noise hum of a motor, the sloppy noises of sex, and Jake stuttering out an "Oh..."

You figure he's got a poignant enough boner, so you hop off the table and take a look at what's between Jake's legs. It's a fucksaw. A large, lubricated, black dildo is pistoning fully in and fully out of Jake's ass, propelled by a reliable lookin' motor. It's running at an average speed at the moment.

"That good?" your autoresponder asks.

"Curve it upwards, towards me a bit," whimpers Jake. There's a moment of silence, where you figure your autoresponder is performing some dildo warping mental magic, and Jake rolls his eyes back and stutters, "Yes, yes, that's perfect."

Jake can't move whatsoever, so your autoresponder doesn't need to warn him to stay still as he wraps cock ring after cock ring around Jake's dick. They're the black leather strappy kind, adjustable, and he puts three on the shaft in strategic places and two around the base, so his balls are constrained. Jake's dick flushes an attractive reddish color with all of it on. He's panting already, lifting his head an inch or two off the cushy table to admire himself.

"Honestly, I don't think all that would do it, so I'm adding some mental fuckery into the picture. Jake's not going to come unless I want him to," says your autoresponder. Jake laughs, breathy, in reply. Your autoresponder opens a drawer on the side of the table, and pulls out what looks like a transparent pocket pussy. It's making a whooshing noise like those suction machines at the dentist. Clear tubes at the top lead back into the drawer he took it out of.

He pushes it over Jake's cock with no buildup, and twists the base to tighten it. Jake's mouth parts and his eyes squeeze shut and you watch his muscles tense on every part of his body. The dude has a surprising amount of ab.

"Jimminy fucking Christmas, that's-" Jake stammers, trying to breathe. "That's good, that's, oh fuck-"

You watch the dildo fuck him, his cock tense and color in the pneumatic blowjob tube. Despite the bands keeping him hard, there is a constant trickle of semen oozing from him and getting sucked up by the machine. If it weren't for the restraints, Jake would _already_ be coming all over himself. It's only been thirty seconds and your autoresponder's found Jake's limit and is pushing him over.

"Fuck, dude, that's the hottest shit I've ever seen," you say, completely seriously.

"I know," says your AR. He's trying to sound smug, but this is _also_ the hottest shit he's ever seen, so it comes off as agreeable.

"Surely you know that I've had hundreds of depraved fantasies about getting smanged by robots, why does Jake get this? Why don't I get a fuckmachine prompt in my section?" you ask.

"Because it's not productive to the matter at hand," says your AR. He waits for Jake to finish a brief scream of pleasure. "Besides, this way we get to jerk off and bust a nut all over his face. There's an astounding lack of Jake English getting come in his eye throughout these fantasies and I aim to remedy that."

Jake's already begging. "Oh my god, please please please, I'm so close, AI, please-"

Your autoresponder flicks a switch on the motor and it speeds up. Jake screams. His cock spasms pathetically. He still doesn't come.

“Please, tell me,” you say, your eyes stuck on Jake’s dick, reddened and aroused. You adjust your erection so it doesn’t pop out of your boxers. “What does this have to do with splitting Jake from his jinni?”

Your autoresponder waggles his eyebrows at you. Jake moans, and without looking at him, your autoresponder turns the fuck motor up to 11. Jake starts screaming and does not stop. “Well, see, this is all a distraction. A ruse. He’s not paying attention to you at the moment, right? Now’s your chance to invade his privacy. Take a little peep at his memories.”

You glance at Jake, who is pathetically trying to pelvic thrust into the pocket pussy, but doesn’t have enough leverage to do so. “Sounds unethical.”

"Don't you want to dig through his head like he dug through yours?"

A little. Still ethically dubious though. You stare at Jake's face, it's like a fucking ahego. Your autoresponder continues speaking to you. "You've already done it. You haven't even felt bad about it. You've already broken the seal. What's a couple more memories? Don't you want to understand him so you can fix him?"

You do. You scoot towards him. Jake’s eyes are rolled all the way back into his head, unable to see you. You reach out for Jake's forehead, hand shaking. C'mon, greater good, Dirk, you gotta do this.

[You press your hand to his soft hairline, and a thousand memories of his well to the surface like bubbles.](https://www.clockworkcontrivance.website/blackbones/iconography.html)

You are hit with a collage of senses, a billion jumbled up and confusing memories that are thrown at you like a deck of cards. Visions, scents, arousal, fear, joy, the taste of different skins beneath your tongue. All-consuming, utterly careless passion. The sensation of having fantastic sex for a thousand years, on repeat, no stopping. Holding the hands of some of the most beautiful men you've ever seen. Jake pulling coins out of fucking nowhere because he thought that paying someone for their complete mental slavery made it okay.

It's hard to pick out more than the sensations, with the blur of shit you’re subjected to, but you can tell they’re classics. Coins, spooky poetic mystery shit, and beautiful girls and boys whom he ruined. It's very visceral, being in these memories, worshiping these women's waists and breasts and necklines. As you witness it you cannot really think about it; Jake loved them so hard they kicked the bucket and you see nothing wrong with it. Clarity and logic comes when you're back in real life.

Jake's still attractive and pathetic as ever, tied up and fucked by a dildo, scream-whimpering, “Please, please, pleasepleaseplease-.” The noise of the machine whirring and the pump sucking up his semen is hot as hell. It's not quite enough to stop the crawling feeling in the back of your head.

"So do all jinn have an infinite supply of gold coins on hand?" you ask your autoresponder, trying to distract yourself from the sensation of this brittle woman dying in Jake's arms.

"Not really. There's less of it in the modern day, as there's more breeding ground for materialism. It depends on the jinn and what they're into, if their disposition is prone to old school temptations," says your autoresponder. He holds out his hand to you, like he's going to drop something in your palm, and you get ready to catch whatever it is. Ten or so gold coins plop into your cupped hands.

You squint at them. "What the fuck? These are all deprecated Dave & Busters tokens."

Your autoresponder shrugs. You figure he isn't very good at the whole temptation thing.

[You chuck the coins into the void and reach for Jake's forehead again. You need to get a clearer picture.](https://www.clockworkcontrivance.website/blackbones/iconography.html)

They are all so... intensely sexual. While there's an air of death and depressing dark shit permeating all his memories, your brain manages to hyper focus on the good bits and shoves the rest aside, probably due to the massive boner you're sporting and the scene playing out on the table. You figure you'll get a massive dose of fridge horror once your raging erection dies down.

You get a picture about how other jinn interact with Jake, which is the best one so far because nobody fucking died in it, but you're extremely distracted by another one. You cannot believe you got to third-person-omniscient fuck a constantly oiled up half-naked tanned sexpot boy toy for days at a time condensed into the span of a minute long flashback and hellll-ooooo nurse. Your dick is rock hard. So is your autoresponder's.

"Welp, I'm done watching," he says, and yanks off his boxers. You watch with disgusted awe as your autoresponder swings a leg up over the table, around Jake's shoulder-area, and starts furiously masturbating. He's angling his dick in a way that will definitely end up giving Jake a facial.

[Not wanting to have to watch yourself jerk off, you dig into another couple memories.](https://www.clockworkcontrivance.website/blackbones/iconography.html)

They get clearer every time, and so many of them are tragic. It'd kill your boner if it weren't for the excessive dude-on-dude action. You're saved by the sensation of lavishing affection on many sculpted marble white twinks.

By the time you're done watching, your autoresponder finishes. Jake makes no attempt to lick it from his mouth. He looks like he’s seizing, he’s spasming as much as the restraints allow him, you can’t see his pupils at all. He’s unable to beg for release any longer. And all through it, the dildo keeps rapid slamming into his ass.

You're getting so horny you're angry. Your turn, you guess. You repeat what your autoresponder did: yank off boxers, get leg up, jerk off in Jake's face. Your autoresponder’s come dripping down his cheek and his ecstatic pleasure get you there quite quickly. You make this fuckmachine scene into a full blown manbro bukkake theater.

Jake is in tears from the edging, his screams reduced to rasping gasps. Your autoresponder waits for you to get off of Jake and get in the best viewing position, then snaps his fingers. The dildo stops, all the way inside Jake. He goes utterly rigid. You watch stream after stream of come pump into the clear tube.

It takes forever for him to finish. Once he does, he collapses against the table, shuts his eyes, and blacks the fuck out. You and your autoresponder blink at each other.

[END.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/37033776#workskin)


	72. RETROSPECTIVE

  
You linger on the edges of time as all the scenes draw to a close.

You figure you're the master trunk of many branches, the Dirk aware of all ten thousand events happening at once. You're not your own entity, or anything physical, you just... exist. Getting every single Dirk POV funneled through you. You are simultaneously getting eggs put in you and whipping Jake and dying from electric shock. You are also aware of what's going on in real life-- you have long since released Jake from his bonds, undressed him, and are laying with him and caressing him under your covers. Not the smartest decision you've ever made, but your mortal brain appears to be totally overloaded by all the information you're siphoning to it.

Time manipulation is performed on everything but the "real world." Some scenes are shorter than others, and when they end, that particular linear timeline freezes and waits for the longer scenes to catch up. You hang out in abstract space and wait for it all to come to an END. Your AR, who is an inherent part of your weird 5th dimensional self, sparks up a conversation with your grander whole once most of them are frozen.

Alright, ready for the retrospective?  
Excuse me? "Retrospective?" Are we doing Agile project planning? Is this a goddamn sprint?  
Which one was your favorite?  
Either the bondage one or the one where I took a dope-ass bath.  
Least favorite?  
Oh, I don't know, maybe the one where we didn't even fuck and Jake murdered you in cold blood.  
Yeah, that'd do it.  
My favorite was the one where Jake fucking destroyed your asshole.  
You're such a voyeur.  
Back atcha.  
Least?  
That shitty old school Hollywood date. Boring.  
To watch, maybe. I enjoyed participating.  
So, what now? I've dissected Jake's psyche to completion.  
Have you?  
I don't feel like I got anywhere within each individual scene.  
But looking at the grander picture, from my viewpoint as Dirk Strider: Master of the Kink Universe,  
I think, and I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I've managed to get my point across to him.  
And it's 'cuz I've learned a little something too: the dude's pretty smart, and he does truly care about being a good person.  
How he applies it is selfish, selective, and fucked up, but he is *so close* to realizing what's wrong.  
I just need a chance to sum up my findings, to a version of Jake who has also been through all these academic sex scenes. I need to present the conclusion to my thesis.  
And present it you will.  
Do I get to commune with his weird-ass grander-god-self now? We'll be like two 2001-esque starbabies having a bizarre telepathic conversation.  
Hell no.  
That'd be so damn boring, and also ineffective.  
You've got all these Dirks and all these Jakes who are currently emotionally vulnerable after getting the living daylights plowed out of them.  
No better time to manipulate someone into splitting from their qareen.  
It won't work if I only continue a single scene, with a Jake unaware of what happened peripherally.  
Don't worry, I'll arrange things so you're operating in linear time and remember all the other dreams.  
Here, I'll plop you into your favorite scene, first.  
I'm just nice like that.  
You angel, you.  


[NEXT](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41222237#workskin)


	73. THE ONE WHERE HE TOOK A DOPE-ASS BATH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _turn your phone wideways for this chapter_

You lay with him on big, cushy pillows.

You are in his arms, surrounded by the afterglow, his thin black robes encapsulating your naked form. All the gold and emerald jewelry he dressed you with still decorates your skin.

He took his glasses off so you could get your faces closer together and make seriously intense eye contact. You feel his breath on your lips, you feel the soft fabric on his shoulders, you feel vulnerable, you feel safe with that vulnerability, and you're actually... happy. Despite the violence and catharsis of many of the scenes you just went through, the clean and secure feeling of your gold-adorned body rules out over all of it. You got fucked in an incredibly satisfying manner, you look great, you're relaxed, and you're in the arms of someone who fascinates you. You are dangerously content.

You tuck a wave of hair behind his ear. You cannot look away from his gaze. You stare into the eyes of someone who really _gets_ you.

Your stomach is tied in a thousand knots and you're sated despite that and you're deeply, deeply afraid you're going to fall in love with this chaotic evil idiot. You did not mean to go this far. Unable to concatenate everything into a single experience until now, your multiple splinters fucked it up for yourself. With all the little details you revealed over the course of a good 40 hours worth of constant intimate sex, on top of the soul reading thing, Jake probably understands your incomprehensible self better than most everyone. Probably even better than your family. And that's fucking horrifying.

Assuming he doesn't fake idiocy and ignorance about you, you're certain he could quite easily reel you in even further and then shatter your psyche. Not with magic soul breaking powers, or by killing you, but with plain old English. Because you understand him a little more too, and you understand that he not only knows how to dissect with a knife but also with words and actions.

You think that's going to be your saving grace. That you've got a tentative grasp of his real self. Besides, you're _also_ an asshole who can critique someone to ineptitude. You _have_ to destroy him before he destroys you.

But you can't, right now. You can't even begin. You're lost in his fucking eyes like some kind of dumbass chick flick protagonist. You curse every inch of yourself as you fully fade into the sensation of being held by him, of sweet, forbidden intimacy. You pray to everything listening that he's _also_ trapped by the smell of smoke, sex, and feelings permeating the room. 

"What was your favorite one?" you ask, with the scratchy, soft voice you use when consumed by intimacy.

He replies in the same tone of voice. "I liked the one where we tussled. When you had the knife on me... hoo boy, I don't think I've ever been more raring to go in my life."

You liked that one more than you thought you would. Your mouth tweaks upwards. Apparently your lips look kissable when curved into something that someone may or may not interpret as a smile, because Jake leans in to give you a soft peck. He lingers, and it turns into a brief makeout session. He pulls you tight to him. You pet his hair. He makes cute little 'mmm' noises on each sweet kiss.

“Least favorite?” you ask, breathing heavy.

His soft look hardens, and he frowns. "The bathtub one with your AI."

"'Cuz you had to think about all the shitty things you've done, huh?" you tease, but Jake doesn't answer. His eyes flick away from yours, breaking the magic.

You sigh, rest your hand on his neck. Your voice is back to normal. "Look, dude, you understand me, after all that. Right? You know what I'm after, why I'm after it, and why you need to split into two people again. You just gotta connect the dots."

Jake twists his mouth to the side, and rolls away from you, onto his back. He blinks up at the bright, transparent fabric, drifting pleasantly through a pure breeze. "I don't feel so great about myself if I connect all your dots..."

"Yeah. That's the point," you say. You take a deep breath, and state, firmly, "You're a monster. But you've got a chance to change all that."

He scowls, but doesn't look at you. Your body doesn't want to argue. You roll closer to him, aching for that good post-sex glow to come back. You reach out to touch his face.

“Jake,” you say, hover-handing awkwardly over his jawline. You try not to sound like such a needy bastard when you say, “Do you care about me?”

Instead of answering, Jake runs.

So you follow.

[NEXT](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41222300#workskin)


	74. THE BATHTUB ONE WITH HIS AI

You sit in Dirk's alarmingly large bathtub, the water full to the rim, with his AI.

You didn't come here of your own free will. The red-eyed, birthday suited fuckhouse currently sitting on your lap probably eavesdropped on your private conversation with Dirk and planted you in this horrible setup. It's a weird one, even by your off-kilter standards: the AI is inhabiting Dirk's body, while Dirk is _apparently_ listening in on your thoughts. Hi Strider! Hi! Hello! Don't be rude! Say hello!  Hi Jake.

You feel very upset, weepy, and waterlogged from how this scene was brought to an end. The AI loops a wet arm around your shoulders and says all smarmy, "Ready to make the right choice, babe?"

You frown at him. Okie dokie, so, maybe you aren't the nicest guy and maybe your wild powers throw things off a bit because you don't understand humans very well. But this whole intervention seems a bit drastic! They want you to split, but you are not some... some malignant entity! You are not a parasite latched onto a person! You are just... you! And you have been yourself (almost) forever! Plain and simple.

The AI is impatient with your lack of response. "We were doing so well," he says, tapping his fingers against your shoulder irritably. "I know you know that you've been making the wrong choice. And I know you know that you're going to hurt Dirk if you continue like this. Don't you care about him?"

"Um," you state, trying very hard not to think and give it away. It doesn't work. Your mind is racing and panicked and too emotional to keep it all shut up.

You are not in love with Dirk. You fall in love instantly or not at all and Dirk was _not_ one of the unlucky ones whom you knocked yourself head over heels for. That’s just how djinn are! But there's something there, when you look at him, and you don't know what it is. It feels like a flower unblossomed, all tight and knotted up and not yet ready for the world. You are afraid of showing it to Dirk-- what if he hurts you?

I'm sorry, I will probably end up hurting you. That's just how I am.  
But, I don't know, what if I've learned? What if I manage to do some things right this time and we become best bros? What if we really like each other?  
It's a risk you have to take to be complete, to feel, to love.  
Jake, it is very human, to want to care.  
Please.

The AI twirls some of your hair around his finger. "If you're afraid of being lonely, don't worry about it. You've got Dirk on this side, and I don't know how well me and the jinni will get along, but we can at least have some fuckin’ awesome sex together. I won't leave you out in the cold, dude."

You sigh, very much done with this argument as you've rehashed it a bajillion times. Besides, even if, in a purely hypothetical train of thought, even if you _were_ able to split yourself in twain, you would have no idea how to go about it.

C'mon, Jake, don't give me that bullshit.  
You know how to do it.  
The rules of the game operate entirely on snake oils and placebos. On faith.  
You just have to believe in yourself.

You're so done with this. Bye! It's been fun (but not really).

[NEXT](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41222327#workskin)


	75. THE BONDAGE ONE

|  Hey.  
Hi.  
Can't escape now, bro. Got you all tied around me.  
But the rope is loose.  
Hey dirk you look really soft and sweet like this.  
Are you in love with me?  
Despite my best intentions, I have to admit that I'm fond of you.  
Do you want to go out with me? Real life, humans only, no jinn allowed.  
You wont like me if im boring.  
Sure I will.  
No you wont!  
Yes I will.  
No you wont!!!  
Yes I will.  
NO YOU WONT!  
Why wouldn't I like ya?  
BECAUSE!  
Because...  
  
---|---  
|  Because youve been totally right about me this whole time!  
Im pathetic without all the pomp and fanfare! Im lame! Im weak!  
I could barely manage to leave my house or my island if i didnt have my powers!  
I get so lonely despite not being able to stand people!  
Im a right coward! I cry at the drop of a hat!  
Im not even that attractive if you get a closer look!  
I think you're pretty hot, dude.  
SUUUURE you do. *Rolls eyes like six times in a row*  
I can't argue with the other things, but that one's a straight up lie.  
And honestly, so fucking what if you're socially inept or whatever? You can learn to grow.  
I'm not a paragon of social graces or anything, but I'll help you.  
NO I DONT NEED ANY HELP!  
If i stay as i am then i dont need to be so scared! I wont need to change!  
  
|  Don't you want to take a risk? Go on a real adventure? A friendventure?  
You won't need to feel so lonely anymore. I'll be there for you, if you still want me. I'll re-introduce you to Rose and Dave.  
And you haven't even met Roxy yet. She'll fuckin' love you, dude. Trust me.  
But what about the other half of me? Im an outcast! Ill be so so so lonely no matter which side I'm on!  
I mean. There's a me that you've met already. He'll help you.  
Hell, you might even like each other once your humanity is removed and you go full-crazy.  
But if i go back there i cant do anything fun!!!  
Like, uh, eat bones or drink alcohol or whatever?  
  
|  From what I gathered from my AR and Rose and the Internet, you don't have to be a hardcore Muslim. Or a hardcore anything.  
It's like Earth, you can choose your religion and how closely you follow along with it.  
Your qareen really should stop eating corpses, though. Hopefully you can adjust and get rid of that bad habit.  
He wont do it!!!  
"He?"  
So there is a difference.  
???  
I dont  
Stop it!  
Stop it dirk! I want to get off this ride!  
  
[NEXT](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41222372#workskin)


	76. THE SHITTY OLD SCHOOL HOLLYWOOD DATE ONE

You stand in the middle of a smoky, crowded, art deco dance floor, holding Jake. You’re still wearing the most kickass suit in existence. You’ve moved from the tables around the bar to drift between reams of trussed up 1940s fabrications of people. The air is muggy with tropical heat. It’s past midnight. You’re a little tipsy from some whiskey you’ve had. The pianist is still playing "As Time Goes By." He must have looped it about 20 times by now.

You’re dancing with Jake, his hand in yours, your arm curled around his waist, cheek to cheek. You're leading. Fuck. Shit. You don't know how to dance. Okay, you got this, just rock step in a square-like formation, it's fine.

Jake pulls away from you first, holding your shoulders at arms width. While you feel alarmingly chipper considering the circumstances, Jake looks pretty fucking irritated. He raises his eyebrow, giving you a stern, almost parental glare.

But he gives in, to the music, to the atmosphere, to his fantasy. He rolls his eyes. He takes off his glasses, folds them up, and puts them in his breast pocket. He returns to your hold, but presses his face to your shoulder so he does not have to look at you. You lean your head against his, and breathe in his smoky black hair, and put your best dancing foot forward for him. You sway back and forth, to the slow tempo of the song.

“How are you doing?” you ask.

12

“I can’t say I’m having much fun anymore. I feel like utter shit,” he says, into your shoulder. “In fact, I really want to put a stop to this whole thing! Maybe use this newfangled safeword concept you’ve brought up.”

“Can’t safeword out of philosophical self analysis, dude. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“Bite me,” he grumbles. You nip at his ear, playfully, but he doesn’t laugh or chuckle. Instead, he continues on with, “I’ll never see your point of view, Strider. Let’s end it and give it up and go back to the real world and put all this behind us. Then we can keep having fun together.”

“Nah,” you say. You pause to press a kiss to his temple. “I think you know why that can’t happen.”

He doesn’t say anything else. You let the tension simmer. You dance with him, you shut your eyes, listen to the music, breathe in the ever present smoke and heat. You wonder if Jake will still have those associations as a human.

"You're… really off beat," grumbles Jake, after a few minutes.

"No, the beat's off me," you say, breaking out into a cold sweat and willing yourself to jump to the next fantasy already.

[NEXT](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41222462#workskin)

13


	77. THE ONE WHERE THEY TUSSLED

You're standing in your walk-in closet, changing out of your compression shorts. They got all cummy in the sex-battle you had, and you'd rather not soak in your own goo. You toss them in the dream-laundry basket and put on a fresh pair of dream-boxers. Jake is standing in the doorway, towards your bedroom. He's got a new pair of boxer-briefs on. He's pouting, folding his arms, tapping his foot like an irritated caricature of himself.

You don't feel the same way. You want to reclaim the intimacy, the love of dancing with him in a dark room. And in this scene, you never got your post-sex cuddles, so your body aches for his. You take a risk.

"Hey. Let's continue the discussion horizontally. Get naked and get under the covers and everything," you say, your voice oozing sentimentality and weakness. You reach for his face, to press your hand to his cheek. "Jake, I... I want to hold you."

Jake scoffs, and brushes away your hand. "God, you're clingy."

Your heart slams shut like an iron cage. He might as well have impaled you with a sword. 

A wave of ice washes over you, and you draw your hand away and go stock still. You narrow your eyes, venom drips from your tongue. "Pot. Kettle. Black."

He rolls his eyes. "Me? How am I clingy? You're pulling shit out of thin air."

"Perhaps 'stalking someone until they literally die' might factor into my accusation."

"At least I'm not trying to 'fix' you!" he snaps, clenching his fists at his sides. “Why are you so obsessed with me anyway? Am I just one of your computer projects? Am I just another project to you? Are you trying to uninstall viruses from my floppydisk?”

“I’m a programmer, not an IT helpdesk, you fucking idiot!” you yell, irrationally angry at the comparison. Your heart is pounding in your ears, you feel like he just shattered you. “I need to fix you because otherwise you’re going to keep going like this and _I cannot let that happen.”_

“How do you know that splitting me won’t make everything even more terrible!?” he hisses, stepping closer to you to get right in your face. You return his bloodshot gaze and do not look away.

"You're already at your worst!" you yell, frustrated. Your anger cascades beyond control. "Jake, you are an absolute _failure,_ you've done _literally everything_ wrong, I've never met someone or something who has fucked up so thoroughly as you. You are at rock bottom in nearly every aspect, and that is _not_ hyperbole."

Jake screams, covering his face with his hands and rocking on his heels. "Stop it! Stop it, you're hurting me!"

"There's nowhere to go but up, dude!" you yell. "Jake, you've got to let yourself grow, even though it's terrifying to take that first step! And that goes for both of you!"

Jake jerks up straight, and slaps you across the face. Your cheek stings. You snap your head back towards him.

On instinct, you slap him in return. He wasn't expecting it; spit flies from his mouth, his eyes are wide with shock. He grimaces, rips off his glasses, hurls them at your hanging shirts, and then full-body tackles you to the ground. You pull half your clothes off the hangers trying to stop your descent, but it doesn’t help anything. You land on your carpet on your back, the wind knocked out of you, Jake looming above you looking like he’s going to pluck your eyes out.

You are consumed with rage, and all bets are off for a fair fight. You think of all the awful things he’s done, of what a terrible monster he is, of the darkest things you’ve learned throughout the dreamfest. You reach around Jake’s head and grab a fistful of his hair and yank. Jake cries out in pain, his neck jerked back at an awkward angle, and you take the chance to roll him over and get on top. Your limbs get all tangled with his as you flop over in a cocoon of discarded shirts, and Jake takes the chance to sink his teeth into your forearm. You scream, feeling him break skin, and box one of his ears to get him to unlatch. 

He tries to reach up and go for your eyes, but you lean back and catch his wrist before he can manage. He tries it with his other hand, but you grab that arm too and dig your fingers in like you’re giving him a snake bite. With the positioning, you can feel his erection prod you between your legs. You are _appalled._

“Are you getting off on this!?” you hiss, not bothering to try and reign in your emotions.

Jake flushes with more than rage. He stops trying to struggle against you. “Oh, like you aren’t either!”

“I’m _not,_ why the fuck would I be!? I’m pissed at you! And we haven’t even breached the refractory period in this dream, what the _fuck-”_

He clenches his teeth, trying to think of an excuse. “Maybe I’m just a big huge disgusting sicko and nothing you’ll do will ever ever _ever_ change that!”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, and let go of him in order to slap him across the face. “Fuck you for being so obstinate and dense and thinking that you’re some unchangeable monster.”

“It’s the truth!” he says, head tilted away from you. His eyes are screwed shut, he’s wincing. And although his arms are free, he does not try to strike you again. “No matter if I’m human or djinn I’ll always be a disgusting sicko!”

Rage is pumping through your thoughts and you cannot form a reasonable argument to that. “At least I’ll be able to help you without your goddamn seizure shit getting in the way! At least you won’t be able kill me!”

“Who says I won’t!?” he yells back, jerking his head back towards you. You see tears forming at the edges of his eyes. “Maybe I’m just as awful and murdery as a plain old human! Did you ever think about that!?”

You grit your teeth, and wind back to punch him, break his nose. But something stops you, some last bastion of rational Dirk. You cannot beat this into him. You should know this by now, this type of shit never ever works.

Instead, you focus your intent, and will yourself to jump to a scene where you’re less bloodthirsty. You can only hope your next self-splinter wont fuck it up for you.

[NEXT](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41222531#workskin)

| 

You quell your urge to strike him in return, even though your blood is pounding, begging you to retaliate. Although you’ve got that inborn instinct to beat a lesson into him, you extinguish it as best you can. Violence and anger rarely solves problems, you’ve got to remember that.

"You know me, Jake. You know who I am," you rasp, your voice shaking. "You've grown to know me better than probably anyone. You're going to destroy me if you keep going like this."

"What about that is going to change?" he yells. He slaps you again, and you stagger back. "I'll destroy you no matter what! It's just how I am!"

You rub your cheek, your skin stinging, but he grabs the collar of your shirt and pushes you back. He starts ranting, as though he’s proving to himself that he _can_ destroy you without powers.

"Your idealized self is an unthinking machine," he says, his eyes wild. "You want to apply angles and charts and arithmetic to me but you can't! You can't because your failing is lust, because you can't see the real me and get all turned about by my blisteringly arousing outward self!"

"That's how you project yourself, Jake," you say, quietly. "I'm sorry. I'm trying to figure you out."

"And what happens when you figure me out?" he asks, and pushes you against the door to your bathroom. He pins you up against the wood with both fists so he can yell in your face. "What happens when you solve the grand ol' English puzzle and you realize I'm nothing to write home about? What happens when you dump me on the roadside because you hate me? Because I turn out to be a pathetic, useless human with no skills or socially acceptable hobbies? When you realize we have nothing in common? When we don't have a chuckle over the same jokes or when I don't understand your brainy humor? When your mind turns out to be much more developed than my poor old human noggin, when you realize you can think circles around me and hurt me in a trillion different ways?"

"I-" you stutter, self-doubt crushing your cognition.

"Lookie here! I can't change myself because then everything dries up! I'll be nothing, I'll be lost, and I'm certain that life won't be worth living any more! And don't you tell me that you'll be around to help me, because you won't, Strider! I'll be too fucking boring and easy for you and you know it!"

You lose every ounce of faith in yourself because it's true. You're a huge asshole, always trying to improve people, make them better because you want them to reach their potential. But there has to be potential there for you to care. What if you're going to ruin Jake by separating him? You don't want to ruin Jake. Maybe you're not doing the right thing. Maybe this whole thing was misplaced. Maybe you should give up. Cry Uncle. Call it quits. Maybe-

It seems you're the largest moron on the face of the Earth, Dirk.  
This is a ruse. A distraction.  
Pull your own head out of your ass for one fucking second and remove yourself from this situation.  
Even if everything he said is true, which, it probably is, fuck you,  
It's not about you.  
It's about stopping Jake from literally killing and eating people.

Oh, yeah. Duh. Gotta stop him from murdering. God, you're an obfuscated, self-obsessed dumbass. Thankfully, your other self is on top of things.  
  
---|---


	78. THE ONE WHERE JAKE FUCKING DESTROYED HIS ASSHOLE

You are laying on top of Jake, on the couch in your living room. Your head is resting on his chest, he's hugging you, all your clothes are on sans your open fly. Your flaccid dick is hanging out; you're letting it air dry. Jake's got his Punisher tee on but isn't wearing any pants or underwear. It's a really stupid look for the both of you, but you can't bring yourself to care. You feel so fucking wrung out, like you've just gone through a full wash cycle. Your muscles ache like you spent too long working out, and your head is throbbing like you're about to cry.

What fantasy was this again? Oh, yeah, the one where you got bruised a bunch, fucked twice, and were left in an emotionally unstable state due to a combination of wanted slurs and Jake's apparent dom drop. Great. Love it. You feel like actual death right now.

You prop yourself up on your elbows so you can make eye contact with Jake. He’s got this hollow look on him. It’s uncanny valley: the neutral expression he’s wearing would be far more at home on your own face.

“I hate you,” he rasps, his voice tired. 

“No, you don’t,” you sigh, your voice equally as tired.

He digs his fingers into your back, hard. “I’ve never hated anyone more in my entire life. I wish you never called me. You’re obsessive and mechanical and heartless. You operate with your smaller head instead of your larger one.”

“Bold statement for someone not wearing pants,” you spit back. 

He narrows his eyes. "You've got a lot of gusto for someone poking a sleeping lion."

"Lion?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "What are you gonna do, kill me and eat me?"

There’s a subtle shift on Jake’s face, and it deepens the shadows beneath his lower lids. “Why not?”

“C’mon, dude, with our dicks out? I think no-”

Jake pelvic thrusts you so hard you go flying, and he rolls you off the couch and into the crack between it and the coffee table. You land on your back with a jolt of pain that knocks the wind out of you. Jake follows your descent. He puts all his weight into bellyflopping over the top of you, and bends himself in half to position his face a literal inch from yours. Heat radiates off him, his teeth flash in your apartment light, his nails claw into your shoulder.

“You think I’m so crazy!? You think I’m a monster!? You haven’t seen _shit,_ Dirk!” he screams. “You haven’t seen anything!”

He jerks up to look for something on your coffee table. You’ve caught your breath, and you have more room to act, so you use what little leverage you have to kick up your thigh and slam him right in his exposed balls. It’s not enough to incapacitate him, but it’s enough to make him crumple forward and hiss with pain. You scramble out from under him, managing to get in a crab-walk position and away from the coffee table.

Jake recovers quickly, and grabs the table lamp he was searching for. It’s one of those vintage bronze-based glass lampshade ones, something Rose got you when you went to college. He yanks it, the plug pops out of the socket, and he crawl-staggers towards you. He bares his teeth at you, and you are 900% certain that he is intending on bludgeoning you to dream-death with it.

"English, what the fuck are you doing!" you holler. You don’t notice your armchair behind you— you ungracefully stumble against it and land prone. "You don't want to kill me! You _care_ about me! You just fucking said- thought- so like ten minutes ago!"

"I changed my mind! Maybe the world will be better off without you!" he yells, and smashes the lamp down over where your hips are. You clamor to the side, and the metallic base crumples against the floor with the force. "You're awful and manipulative and think that you can edit my wishes by boring the crap out of me with dull as hell psychological discourse!"

"You were _not_ bored!" you yell, panicked, as you continue rolling around your furniture. Jake brings the lamp down again, misses, and the glass shatters into a thousand pieces. "We laughed, we cried, we tussled! Stop misinterpreting events, you dense fuckhead!"

"I'm not misinterpreting _shit_ Strider! I'm just some hyper-real puzzle-game to you!" he screams, and abandons the lamp in favor of lunging on top of you. "I'm not a toy! I'm not just some sex robot that you need to fix and improve! I don't want to be fixed!"

"You're not a robot, Jake, you're a fucking murderer!" you yell, unable to dodge him. He scrambles to straddle you and get his bearings. "And yeah I want to fix you, but not to get my rocks off, it's because I believe in you!" 

Jake's managed to straddle your lower half and lock you down, but did nothing about your arms. You have an opening. You can palm-strike him in the forehead and hopefully knock him out. You could also punch him in the jaw or get under his glasses and jam your thumbs into his eyes. But reminding yourself of the hidden goodness inside Jake dims your adrenaline. You shouldn't fight him. You've learned this a thousand times over: beating a lesson into someone is never effective.

You feel like you can risk an alternate method here; you cannot die in the dream. As gentle as you can manage while still being quick, you pap both your palms against Jake's cheeks, and slide them up to tuck his hair behind his ears. It's as romantic as you can make it, considering the circumstances. Jake is so taken aback that he does not try to retaliate. He plants his hands near your shoulders and stares down at you, wild eyed, panting like an exhausted mare.

"I believe there's something worth saving in you," you say, your voice as steady as you can make it while in the middle of a fight. Jake says nothing. You stroke his jawline and mouth his name. He grits his teeth.

“You said it, buckaroo. I'm a monster,” he states, coldly. “There’s nothing to save.”

He wraps his hands around your neck, and squeezes. You choke, your airway closed, and you jerk your hands down to scratch at his wrists. A futile attempt to get free. He will kill you like this, at least in the dream.

You're going to be strangled, with your dick out, by a guy not wearing any pants. How fucking comical. 

"I don't care about you," Jake mutters, his eyes wide and wild. He rocks back and forth as he chokes you. He maintains eye contact as he repeats it to himself. "I don't care about you. I don't care about you."

You think through your options. You could try a muy thai move on him to get out of the choke hold. You could lash out and fuck with his vision. But you do not fear death in this dream, so you decide to take a risk.

You reach up, slow and non-threatening, and brush your hand against his cheek. You stroke his jawline gently with your thumb. You wipe away a tear forming at the corner of his right eye. It doesn't help much-- more plop out faster and faster, and spatter into your face. They are burning hot, and steam against your skin. 

You're about to run out of air. You gape at him, unable to keep your face flat as panic rises through your throat, as your vision goes black with spots. You rest your trembling hand against his cheek.

| 

"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
"I don't care about you."  
  
---|---  
  
“Fuck,” Jake hisses, and more tears hit your face. “Fuck, I can’t, I can’t-”

Instead of letting go of you, or continuing to choke you, Jake runs.

[NEXT](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692911/chapters/41222573#workskin)


	79. THE ONE WHERE THEY DIDN'T EVEN FUCK

Your AR is dead in this one. It's just you. You and Jake, standing across from each other, on a dark and stormy beach. The tide is up to your calves, the ocean waves violently lashing against your legs, spraying your outfit with horrendously cold water.

He looks like he's on the verge of breaking, not even breaking in two like you want, but just utterly collapsing. He has his hands threaded through his hair, holding his head up, his face manic and his pupils the size of pinpricks. Sweat drips down his jawline in big streaks. You don't know what to do. You are out of ideas. Your autoresponder isn't here to be a voice of cold reason.

You are so frustrated and upset and scared and drained that you cannot think. So you do the thing that would only occur to you without your higher cognition in order: you sink to your knees, and you beg.

You don't even try to look nice. You just fucking grovel. You tangle your fingers into the hem of his shorts, look up at him, and start pleading like a goddamn idiot.

“Jake, please,” you choke out, and while you are not crying yet, you can hear the hoarse sob in your own voice. _“Please.”_

“No!” he screams, looking somewhere past your head, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm horrible, I'm evil, I hurt everyone I meet! But I can't change! I can't! I can't! I'm so scared, I'd rather die!"

“You have to!” you cry out, desperately. The wind swirls and storms around you, drowning your voice. You don’t know what else to say. “Jake! You have to do this!”

"I can't do it!" he screams. “I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”

He won’t do it.

After all this. After all this, you have gotten nowhere. You let go of his shirt and sag with the weight of failure.

You give up.

That's it. You're done. You cannot fight any more. That's all, folks. That's all she wrote. You hang your head, utterly defeated. There is no happy ending for him. Jake will never change himself, and you will die, and he will rot for the rest of eternity. Or perhaps instead, your autoresponder will kill Jake, and you will move on with a black mark carved into your heart, a permanent reminder that you weren't able to save his soul.

You look down at your lap, and listen to the wind roar around you, and watch your tears spatter into the rising tide. You wait to drown.

"I’m not good for shit, I can’t do anything!" Jake is sobbing, screaming. “But look at what you’ve done for me! Look how far you’ve gone! You can do everything I can’t! So why can’t you go that last inch!? Why can’t you!?”

You don’t understand what he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter. You wish the waters would rise and kill you already. You want to fade away and give up and leave it all to fate.

"I don't believe in myself!" he screams, over the wind. "But I believe in _you!"_

You lift your head.

You take a breath, and the thunder goes quiet. You get to your feet, and the storm breaks. You stop crying, and the waters recede, leaving you standing on warm sands. Your heart glows bright and brilliant, and Jake sobs and sobs.

The light in your chest drowns out everything, a blinding white beacon that absorbs the setting around you. Your soul is clean, the things he’s done wiped away by his faith in you. You will not let him down.

With an utter confidence, a confidence that flows through your veins only when you are doing something selflessly for another, you lunge for Jake. You lash out for his neck. Your fingers bypass the human muscle and skin and wrap around the jinni beneath.

You put all your weight into it, and Jake splits into two with your force, like some kind of sick mitosis process. You dig your fingers into the throat of Jake's companion. You topple forward, your nails latched into his skin. Your arm, then shoulder, then your whole body, passes through Jake like a shadow as you force out the qareen. 

His doppelgänger is making the same tearful expression as the human Jake. He wraps his hand around your wrist, not to release your chokehold, but as something of a comforting gesture. You hope this Jake will be alright, too. The doppelgänger will have to return to his weird, abstract, alternate plane of existence and try to make amends with his old friends who threw him out, or make new friends all together. At least they'll sympathize with the corpse eating thing. Good luck, other Jake. You hope your AR will do what he promised.

The moment the Jakes are fully split from each other, as soon as their feet are wrenched apart in wisps of shadow and color, you are dragged back to the real world with a hiss and a bang.


	80. ALL THESE THINGS THAT I'VE DONE

You’re back on your bed. You have all your weight on Jake, your face pressed into his neck. He smells... sweaty.

You’re naked, Jake’s naked, and his bonds are gone and you’ve only got the vaguest memory of removing them. You can't tell if you were asleep or zoned out or what. Your mouth and eyes are kind of dry, but your head doesn't hurt, so you don't think you were seizing. You prop yourself up to look at Jake, who's got this alarmed expression on his face. 

The sheets around Jake are _covered_ in soot, piles and piles of it, spilling over your bed where it shucked off his skin. Ashes stream off the mattress like sands in an hourglass. Your hands are covered in black. Your wrists are speckled with bruises, and you bet your neck looks even worse. There are painless microabrasions all over your chest and neck, almost like your skin got really dry and cracked in a bunch of places. You're smearing a light sheen of blood over Jake and the sheets. When you open your mouth, your jaw makes an alarming popping noise, like you’ve been sucking six dicks for six hours. So you decide not to say anything. 

You lift yourself up over him. There's a noise like cling wrap coming off a bowl of pudding as you peel your waist away from his. You feel very... wet.

You glance down, and so does Jake. His alarm dissipates into disgust and confusion when he sees the ridiculous amount of jizz coating your bodies. His torso looks like a frosted cinnamon roll. You both make the same "eugh," noise. You had no idea your collective ballsacks could even hold that much. This shit’s like a slip ‘n’ slide.

This is, without a doubt, the messiest sex you've ever had. And that includes the time you got pissed on. At least that didn't require a fucking turbo hyper suck vacuum. Christ, this is going to take ages to clean up.

There’s a moment of awkward silence as you both try and figure out what to say to each other and how to process what just happened. There’s a noise like someone tearing a sheet of cotton behind you. Surprised, you jerk up to your knees, and watch what can only be described as a hole in reality open in your bedroom. Through the void, piles and piles of… what you think is _junk,_ like actual goddamn garbage, is pushed through the crack. It fills up the spaces in your room like a flood, piling up to the ceiling where it comes out. It’s like a fucking cartoon, like when a character opens a closet and an impossible amount of stuff crushes the characters. You’re scared that it’s actually going to crush _you,_ but thankfully, the junk manages to remain safely between your bed and the floor, with a giant mountain in the corner where the hole originated. You hear a little ‘ping,’ like the void shut, and the mountains of garbage stabilize. Silence descends on your bedroom once again.

"My stuff," Jake says, in monotone. Then he repeats, horrified with realization, "My stuff!"

You get the impression that Jake is about to have a panic attack. The pinpoint sized pupils really clue you in that he's going to _freak._ You say, "Don't worry, babe, we'll go to Target and get you plastic storage bins," then kiss his cheek, sweetly.

This seems to placate him, if only due to sheer bafflement, and you quickly coax him up and out of bed. You _refuse_ to deal with the upcoming breakdown when coated in crusty-ass jizz and rolling in what amounts to a dirty fireplace. You're getting yourselves washed off, stat.

You get a firm grip on his arm and tentatively step through the junk to your mostly-clear walk-in closet, then to your bathroom. Jake jams his hand in his mouth as you walk.

"Where are my extra molars?" he chokes out, around his fingers. "How am I gonna chew kale?"

"Your mistake is eating kale in the first place," you reply. You push him into the shower, grab your towels out from under the sink. "I did you a favor."

You don’t turn the shower on, you don’t want the ridiculous amounts of goo on your bodies to clog up the drain. You go to Jake, towels in hand, and force him to sit down on the cold tile. 

"God. There's... There's so much," you say, with growing horror, as you start to sop the layers of splooge off him. "Jake, we're never going to come again. There's nothing left. We've done it, we've expelled every seman we have."

Jake stares up at the showerhead. "How old do humans get again? 30? How long do you think I have?"

"I dunno dude, 50ish years? You look around my age." You toss aside the soaking towel and grab the next dry one. "Jake, you are really not appreciating how much jizz there is. I didn't think our balls could collectively produce this much."

"Jake isn't even my name, it's my companion's name," he says, quietly, like he's embarrassed about it.

You stop cleaning him. "What is your name, then?"

He stares up at the ceiling. It takes him a long time to answer, "I don't remember. Jake’s fine." 

You get whiplash with how fast you’re reeled back in. Dammit, you should have stayed in bed with him, said ‘fuck it’ to the dirt and grime and bodily fluids. Now he’s going to break down in a cold, unloving bathroom, and you brought him here. You’re such an asshole.

But you have to keep going; he put his faith in you. You set aside the towel, and pull him towards you, and provide him with the only warmth you can think of. He does not hug you back.

"I've done horrible things," he murmurs. He sniffles into your shoulder, then his voice comes out as a choking sob. "All these memories... Dirk, I have so many memories, and a lot of them aren't shitty and horrible but only the awful ones are floating to the top! Anna and Alessandro and Aoi and Aranea and Arsala... I loved them and I broke them and it didn't even hurt me! And- and now- now I'm going to break too!"

And here you sit, in a shower with the water turned off, holding a repentant murderer. Naked and afraid and covered in dried blood, ash, and semen. Tears and snot and spit rain down your shoulder, and Jake screams, and rocks against you, and shivers like he’s rattling apart. You have no fucking idea how to handle this. The best you can do is hug him tighter.

You hope your arms are strong enough to hold him together.


	81. LALONDE FAMILY REUNION

Welcome to the beginning of the #brain-bleach channel.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH  
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH  
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA  
Dave, calm yourself.  
NO  
It is over. It is finished. And so is Dirk.  
In fact, I'd say he finished 24 times, by my count.  
IS IT REALLY FINISHED ROSE  
IS IT  
or will the memories of what i just read stay with me throughout the decades  
haunting my nightmares and my waking self  
that was like sixteen academic essays worth of extremely distressing sexual acts  
narrated by my bros evil alter ego who just happens to share dirks hobby of actively trying to rustle my jimmies  
ugh god that was the most disgusting experience of my life  
And yet, there you were.  
Reading all of it. Lapping up every word.  
yeah it was like watching two passenger trains crashing into each other  
you know its horrible and tragic but you cant look away  
wait  
wait wait wait  
put my groaning and bemoaning on hold weve got something better to do  
Hmm?  
roxy just came online  
Oh!  
Really?  
hey team hey!!!! ;) ;) ;)  
im back from birthright israel and suuuuuuuper jetlagged  
whats up?  
:D  
its great to hear from you and see your pleasantly pink text and all but  
dude  
you were gone for like three months without a peep  
srry  
Not that we're bitter.  
Although at least we weren't worried. The only reason we knew you weren't dead and/or kidnapped was because Mother had a geolocator sewn into your cat backpack.  
lmao yeah,, srry babes i didnt have access to the interwebs a lot and when i did i used it for DANK MEME HUNTING. gotta stay current and all  
fair  
although werent you in israel  
dont they have 4g  
nah i basically fucked right off after the tour part and dicked around the middle east for a while until i got to turkey  
Roxy, I love you, but that was a stupid thing to do. I'm surprised you're not dead and/or kidnapped.  
stfu!!! most everyones SUPER nice!!!! like the nicest people on the earth and thats nto even an exxacgeration.  
*exaggeration. sorry for all the typos i promise i am not hammered i am just very sleepy zzzzzzzzz  
anyway do you KNO how many iraqi moms made me full world class meals without even understandin a word i was sayin???  
buuuut all that can wait until we have brunch or somethin. ill conk out on my keyboard if i start tellin stories now  
what cool shenanigans did i miss in my quarter year away?  
Dirk summoned a jinn and fucked it into nonexistence.  
lmao  
As of two hours ago.  
is he okay? if theres one thing ive learned its that all that jinn shit is crayyyy  
I'm ok.  
Sorry for the radio silence, I was reading over the event summary and savoring Dave's stream of consciousness reactions.  
i fucking loathe you dude  
Nice to see you, Rox'.  
You're going to accept that I summoned a jinn? No questions asked?  
you see a looooot of shit when you're in the middle of a desert with the middle eastern equivalent of hillbillies who think that if you pee without prayin jinns are gonna show up and throw an orgy in your wetmares  
also im SUUUUPPPEERR jetlagged. u could tell me you became the prime minister of canada and id probs believe you lol  
How's your now-truly-human boyfriend doing, by the way?  
Boyfriend is a... strong word. But go off I guess.  
more like GET OFF am i rite ;)  
;)  
;)  
wink emoji  
Anyway, he's essentially comatose. He has wrapped himself in my duvet, like a combination blanket burrito and blanket cape. Currently, he's vapidly tapping through the settings on my latte machine, at a snail's pace.  
He's been doing this for two hours.  
Watching him like this, I’m not sure I did the right thing.  
Was this the right thing to do?  
yeah  
Yes.  
yeah  
Roxy, you don't even know the context.  
yeah but like, i can totes tell when you're getting stuck in one of your stupid self-deprecating moods  
and rose is always right anyways  
Damn straight.  
Thanks for the reassurance.  
I gave him space to mope. I'm currently taking a break from organizing his piles of shit.  
He has quite a lot of firearms. I've been unloading them, but it's still mildly terrifying. I have no idea how psycho he is at this point, but I'd feel safer if I had it all locked up.  
Dave, would you pick up one of those larger rifle lockers for me? Also like 20 of those giant plastic storage tubs. Clear or pink.  
bro thats gonna cost like six hundred dollars  
I'll pay you back. Do you need the money immediately?  
uh yes? what kind of question  
Wiring it now.  
just like that huh  
Remind me why we aren't software engineers, Dave.  
cuz were dumb as rocks  
ur not dumb!!! dirks just got a nutso work ethic so dont u dare compare urself to him  
anyway time to go get hookers and blow with my bros money  
I threw in an extra 50 for just that purpose.  
really wow now i feel bad  
maybe i wont ""blow"" it all  
but if you think this paltry sum can buy back my love after the sexcapade i was just subjected to youre wrong  
You're the one that read it.  
so what next? what are you gonna do with your bf?  
Bf is a strong word.  
But good question. I'm busying my mind with vacuuming up all this goddamn ash and going through skulls, bone shards, clothes, film reels, slides, VHS tapes, DVDs, HD DVDs, Blu-rays, weapons, comics, taxidermized game trophies, and frankly, some very cool antiques.  
After that I'll fret over what to do with him.  
I have no idea how dangerous he still is.  
well stop fucking him  
**stop getting fucked  
Yeah, no shit, that's step one.  
He'll be sleeping on my couch, but I doubt I'll be calm enough to sleep tonight. My bedroom door doesn’t have a lock.  
want to come over here  
Nah.  
Would you like me to come over and talk to him? Perhaps perform some of my hobby-psychology, in lieu of sending him to a therapist who would diagnose him with some sort of delusion?  
That's a good suggestion. It wouldn't be a bother?  
Of course not.  
Although don't mistake this as utterly selfless: while I do unironically care for you and want to make sure you're safe...  
wow really sentimental rosie im tearin up over here  
I think it would be interesting to discuss his life with him. He probably has a lot of stories to tell.  
You've picked up a fascinating boyfriend.  
Ok, seriously guys. That is way too strong a term.  
And yet, you're going out of your way to help him.  
I have to, I summoned him, I forced his hand. I owe him help, for giving a large part of himself away at my behest.  
I can't leave him out in the cold.  
you dont owe him shit im pretty sure he was going to kill you  
Non-maliciously kill me, if that counts for anything.  
wtf?????  
Anyway, I will take you up on that offer, Rose. But he'll need a couple days before he's ready to talk to anybody. Including me.  
Alright. Let me know.  
well lmao did any more of you dumb dumbs summon jinn while i was away? or just dirk "ill fuck anything once" strider  
Yes, actually. I summoned a demon and started this whole thing.  
:o!!!!  
She went to go get snacks. I'll have her pop online again.  
hi roxy!!!  
Say hi to Jade.  
hi jade!!!  
hi jade  
Hi Jade.  
hi jade!!!  
so can rosie fuck the evil away for you too?  
nah sorry im not human at all so ive got nothing to lose! im just a boring doggie demon :P  
dang so theres no sexy sexy threat of murder  
It is kind of sexy.  
guys thats fuckd up :/  
sorry no sexy murder here! im pretty much limited to running through the night and communing with witches and barking and borkingan̶ḑ ͞k͟n̵o̵͡wį͘n̷g̕͝͠ ͢͠a͡͏l̕l̵ ̴o͡f͠ ̸̡y̸͝o͢u͏r̶ ̸͞҉s̢̕i͏̴͏n͘s̡  
i cant do cool imagination stuff like jake was doing. i cant even possess people!  
Trust me, we've tried.  
alright fucking BYE im dipping out before rose decides to narrate her yiffventures  
plastic tubs are better than this shit  
anyway be by in like a couple hours with the stuff  
i will be your storage messiah  
your lord and davior jesus strider  
please dont be slamming his ass when i barge into your apartment carrying bootfulls of storage containers and like a fifty pound gun locker  
**getting your ass slammed  
I can guarantee you we won't be.  
See you soon.


	82. PANTY SHOT

You’ve had weird roommate situations before —drunkenly hooked up with your dorm-mate and had to live with the aftermath, lived with an ex-boyfriend for a while— but it is intensely awkward living with someone who literally fucked your soul. It is even more awkward that he is only a _slightly_ different person from a dude who killed and ate actual people. You wonder how the hell he’s reconciling that. ‘Cuz like, how the fuck do you bounce back from knowing you ate someone’s face off? There is no way this fucker doesn’t need some heavy therapy.

But you’re not going to ask. Having sex with him? No way. You don’t even talk to him.

It’s not like you don’t try. In the aftermath of the whole sex debacle, you discover you are simultaneously terrified of and enamored with him. Every goddamn time you sit down next to him on the couch, intending to talk to him, you look at his hollow PTSD-ified face and this humongous chasm opens in your soul. You remember everything that passed between the two of you all at once and you lose every one of your carefully rehearsed words. Longing and love and horror and pity and disgust freeze you in a way you've never felt before in your life. You stare at each other for a while as you scramble for something to say, and you always end up going with something stupid like, "Uh, hey, do you need another pillow or anything?"

You don't have to ask Jake to sleep on the couch, he just does so without prompting. He steals your duvet and comforter without asking, but you don't mind. Not like you can't just lower the AC. He basically camps out on your couch 24/7, laying sideways in a mute blanket nest of depression and sadness, watching a truly random selection of movies. They range from _Mother!_ to _Howard The Duck_ to _The Thief of Baghdad_ to Norwegian films you can't figure out the names of. 

While he does that, you clean up his life. You are compelled to do this. You can't organize his thoughts for him but you can at least organize his possessions.

You still go to work, although you stop working optional overtime, and your best friends in the next week are a pair of rubber dishwasher gloves whom you dubbed Shadowfax and Seabuiscuit. You started wearing them while cleaning because you're afraid of picking up some corpse disease from the random skulls and bones scattered about everywhere, although most of them look so old they probably haven't had a microbe living on them since medieval times. Better safe than sorry, anyway.

You find his phone crushed beneath a globe that has a secret chamber for wine inside. You're surprised he has a phone actually-- it's not bleeding edge or anything, but it's still a touchscreen. Unfortunately, the screen is cracked beyond usability. You tell him this as he watches a bootleged copy of _Inchon_ with your blankets cocooned around him, and he doesn't respond with anything more than a shrug. You take it to work and recycle it.

You hang up his shirts and jackets and skirts and outerwear in your closet, because you've got a ton of space in there, although you have to remove your puppets/sex toys from some of the drawers in order to store his shorts and underwear. He's mostly got comic book tshirts from the past 4 decades, shorts exclusively from the 70s/80s, suits from various eras, and a weird amount of stereotypical British-Colonialist Adventurer dress. But the comparatively few articles of perfectly preserved folk dress he owns are what truly stun you. The costumes take your breath away; he kept the kind of ornate takes-two-years-to-sew stuff meant for weddings or rituals or showing your wealth. You send pictures to Roxy and learn that, unfortunately, most of those outfits are for women. You store them as best you can in the bins, maybe you can donate them to a museum if they're painful for him to look at. You hang up the 5 or 6 folk costumes clearly meant for him, however.

Not that he ever goes into your closet; you pick out an outfit for him daily. You also make him shave, shower, and brush his teeth in the mornings. You do his laundry too, and cook stuff for him… A lot of your free time is spent trying to figure out how to make something remotely nutritious, since it’s not just you eating your grody bachelor meals anymore. You, uh, enjoy this more than you let on. Prince of Domesticity. You're not sure how you feel about that.

You do not even think about jerking off until most his stuff is safely pushed against the wall in opaque labeled bins. At first you are literally unable to do so, your dick simply refuses to get hard after the severe amount of sex you went through. It takes five days until you're able to maintain an erection and feel horny, but a minor problem arises. The only thing that gets you going are thoughts of Jake. 

Specifically, you fantasize about him coming into your room, crawling into your bed, and ravishing your defenseless heaving bodice or whatever. This is not something you actually want to happen, but damn if it isn’t hot to think about. The point’s moot, anyway: he doesn’t come close to you when you’re awake, much less when you’re sleeping. It feels wrong to jerk off to that with him in your apartment, so you just lay there in barely constrained lust and wait for it to go away. 

Rose calls you an emotionally constipated caricature of masculinity and shows up without prompting a week into your living situation to talk to him. Your plan is to eavesdrop on Rose and Jake through your bedroom door while you put the very last bit of mess (a pile of disorganized comic books) away. This plan fails, since they talk too quietly to hear from your bedroom. At least you get all of Jake’s shit cleaned up/thrown away/etc. You don’t really know what to do with yourself now. 

Once Rose leaves, a couple hours later, the change in Jake is visible. You don’t know what she said to him, but it clearly made a difference. He's not... magically better, or anything, he's just getting up and walking around. He helps with dinner. He doesn’t do much, just chops some carrots, but from that small interaction you suspect he’s a much better cook than you.

The next day, he asks for forty bucks for “an investment,” and you give it to him without asking. He leaves your apartment in the afternoon, then returns while you’re eating your dinner. He's got one of those girly designer shopping bags, with a brand name printed on the side so everyone knows you shopped there.

“I went and got underwear. I'm going to sell them,” he tells you, digging through his bag. He unwraps some tissue, pulls out a couple plastic-wrapped pairs of ladies panties. Oh, right, he mentioned that he made money selling pre-worn underwear on Reddit when he couldn’t schmooze off the humans he “followed.” You wonder how much they go for.

“Just get a job, dude,” you say, eyeing the panties. They’re all hiphuggers, patterned with teeny tiny bows on the thick lacey waistbands. Really cute.

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Silicon Valley Brogrammer,” he sighs, ennui wafting off him. “I don’t even have a phone anymore.”

“Well, get one of those too.”

He points at the panties, dryly. You guess it generates enough income for a basic phone contract. You frown, thinking of something important.

“How are you going to take pictures without a phone.”

“My laptop has a perfectly fine webcam.”

“That thing is ancient, you’re going to wind up with a nine pixel picture covered in jpeg artifacts,” you say, a little miffed. “I’m offended by your use of technology. You can use my phone.”

And that’s how you end up with Jake nigh-naked in your living room, modeling for you in green and white striped panties that barely contain his junk. You snap a headless picture on your favorite phone and adjust the contrast on your screen. So much for awkwardness.

He managed to shove it all under the fabric in a way that his balls aren’t grotesquely hanging out or anything. It actually looks pretty nice. The clear outline of his soft dick through the stretchy cotton is hella hot. This isn’t usually your thing, but maybe you were just looking at bad dude-panty shots before.

"And this works for you, huh," you say, leaning further back from your seat on the couch to get a good angle. Jake stands in front of you and puts his hands on his hips, proudly.

"Of course! I market them as bear panties."

"You are _not_ a bear," you say, clicking on the view of Jake's bulge to focus the camera. "Why the fuck do you think you're a bear."

"I'm furry and it has a dangerous ring to it, don't you think?" He makes a clawing motion, grins, and says, "Rawr."

"Being a bear isn't about mauling people, it's about, uh," you lose your train of thought, staring at the screen of your phone. Looking at the shadow of his dick, hidden and tantalizing, reminds you of how it feels in your hands, in your mouth, in your ass, rutting up against you. You lick your lower lip. "It's about, uh... being... uh, hey, could you spread your legs and tilt towards me? I want to get a thigh gap shot."

He does so. Everything swings down beautifully and you capture the moment forever on your phone, angling it to get the best lighting. Damn, that is a _package._ Does he taste different, since he's human? Would it be harder to get him to come? You wonder how virile he is, how much of a facial can he give you without his imagination powers? Would he be gentle with you or would he use your mouth rough and hard?

You mentally slap yourself for fantasizing about sucking his cock. You can't. You can't fuck him when you haven't even talked to him. When you don't know how crazy he is. You squirm and shift your legs, trying to get the near-ticklish feelings of early arousal to go away.

The beautiful dick in your face isn't helping much. You have to steel yourself. You can do this. Restrain yourself. He probably doesn't even want to fuck you anyway. Look but don't touch.

Don't touch. Don't touch. Have you ever gotten to play with him when he's totally soft? You don't think so. Before you can stop yourself, you tell him, "Okay, let's reverse that. Can I get a shot with your legs pressed together?"

He has to manhandle his whole damn dick to get the pose, and you both hate and love yourself for ordering him to do this. You watch him gently fondle his balls out of the way, and you imagine how soft they are on your own fingertips. When he clamps his legs tight together, his bulge is perfectly shaped. Holy shit, you want to put your mouth on that so bad.

"Is that good?" he asks, innocently.

"Yeah, really good," you say, your voice cracking on every single syllable, and snap a couple more pictures.

You're getting hard. You can feel it, and you can't stop it. You wear pretty tight jeans, but they ain’t _that_ tight. You subtly cross your legs and hope it’ll be enough to hide it (it’s not enough).

You can’t fuck him. You can’t. You snap another picture, your hand starting to jitter.

He turns around. The cloth cups his ass _perfectly,_ like there’s two lacy hems diving his supple buttcheeks diagonally and meeting between his legs. You want to put your hands on it. You wanna smack it. And the worst part is, you know what that ass feels like in your palms, how it feels pressed all the way up to your pelvis, how it feels to fuck him.

“Get a nice angle of my rear!” he says, happily.

You spare a quick glance down at yourself. Your boner is _huge._ Like banana jutting out of your pelvis huge. Like plus sized unicorn huge. Like teenage wet dream huge. He’s grinning at you over his shoulder, so you can’t reach down and tuck it away. Your thoughts become less about not-fucking him and more about how to get rid of this erection.

He turns back to face you once he’s satisfied you got enough sweet pics, still proudly grinning. Your dick is so hard. You're tenting your jeans and it's so fucking obvious and no matter how much you readjust your legs it's not going to work and all the embarrassment is turning you on even more. He has to notice, he has to. He can't not notice.

In order to save what little dignity you have left, you steel yourself and reach beneath your clothes to shift your boner under your elastic waistband. You stare firmly at your screen as you do so. You lash down and push on your shaft and oh shit, that feels fantastic, you haven't touched yourself in a week... You'd love to watch Jake pose for you as you get yourself off.

But you can't. You can’t fuck him. You complete your mission, erection safely tucked away, and return your hand to your phone. You spare a cautious glance up at Jake's face. He is staring firmly at your crotch, lips slightly parted, his face darkening. Okay. Apparently he didn't notice you had a massive boner until now. Great job, Dirk, cluing him in on that one.

"I'm taking another picture," you blurt out, trying to normalize things. It doesn't help, you feel your face turning beet red. He shifts his weight back and forth. He chews on his lip. You want to kiss him so bad.

Your hands are shaking with shame and violent arousal. You hit the picture button with your thumb. It clicks. Jake's cock visibly pulses in the viewport. Expands a little. You hear every beat of your heart, hammering in your ears. You lower the camera.

He adjusts his glasses, looking away from you. You watch, unable to blink, glued to the sight, as Jake gets hard in front of you. His cock twitches upwards, grows harder and harder at such a slow pace it might as well take an eternity. You can hear the imaginary second hand tick by, booming loud in your head. The outline of his shaft grows defined, locked to his left hip by his tight cotton panties. A small wet spot forms on the stripes.

Your phone tumbles out of your hands, and clatters to the floor.

His cock is too big for them, and the tip peeks out from the top of the lace, glistening tempestuously. Jake bites his knuckle, unable to look at you. You can no longer form coherent thoughts. You cannot form words. You are shaken. You are broken. Every single wall of resistance crumbles and you fall from grace. You choke on your own breath, already out of your fucking mind.

"I- I want you so bad," you sob, desperate, your hands trembling, still stuck like they're holding an invisible phone. "I can't think, I, Jake, I need you, come here, _please,_ god-"

Jake confirms his consent with words said so quickly that they sound like a moan, a rushed “’Kay Dirk,” and instead of slamming his dick into your face like you want, he bends over to unbutton your fly. This is pretty fucking annoying, since it ruins your view, so you lean way forward and sabotage his efforts by gripping his ass and pulling. “No, no, fuck, Jake, I meant, come _here.”_

He’s forced to stand up straight as you wrap your arms around his upper thighs in a tight hug and draw him close. You press your face right into his junk. You feel like a heroin addict finally getting a hit. The panties have that fresh-from-the-store smell, you draw your tongue up from the base of his dick to the head that peeks out just above the lace. You get the fabric taste out of your mouth by focusing on the tip, lapping up the precome. Jake gasps, threads his fingers through your hair. “Dirk, lemme touch you, please.”

You ignore him. You can’t get enough of this dick. You’re a thirsty fuckin’ slut and you will not be denied your oasis. You repeat the base-to-head motion, feel him shudder and twitch and leak precome over the cloth. You’re pretty sure you’re greatly appreciating the value of these panties.

You decide that this isn’t nearly enough. You want him to stuff your goddamn face. You want him to wreck your mouth. You want him to reactivate your TMJ problem and force you to go to the dentist for a mouth splint again. You release the hold you have on his legs to try to lower his panties. Jake uses this moment to escape.

He takes a couple steps backwards, where you can’t reach him, and pulls off the panties himself. His erection looks as throbbing and sensitive as yours. Fully naked, he plants his hands on his hips, like he’s scolding you. His face is flushed, he’s panting, he’s making a pouty face like he’s bitter about you sucking his cock. “Lay down,” he commands, pointing at the couch. “On your back.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re not one to refuse an order during sex. You lay your head flat on the cushion, and kick your legs up over the opposite arm. You’re expecting Jake to climb on top of you and frot with you, but he climbs on top of you to do the reverse of that. One of his knees gets wedged between the back of the couch and your head, his other leg braces against the floor. You feel his hand pull your dick out, his warm breath ghosts over your shaft. There are balls hovering over your face and Jesus fucking Christ you want them pressed to your eyes like two facial mask cucumber slices _right this instant._

“Lower, c’mon baby, 69 me,” you say, totally crazy with lust. You squeeze his thighs, trying to pull him closer, feel his lips slide over your shaft. Warmth shoots through you and your hips buck up of their own accord. You feel Jake’s tongue, feel him swallow, everything is static and electricity. “C’mon, fuck my mouth, don’t be shy.”

He does. You actually have to brace his thighs up so he doesn’t fuck into you too fast. Although you are overcome with your own passions at the moment, you still need a solid fifteen seconds to get adjusted to deepthroating. Desperate for him, you don’t bother with teasing him or foreplay, you take him fully into your mouth and start going at it. You control the speed of his thrusts with a firm grip until you’re ready for him to go at his own pace. When you let go, he starts jackhammering into you at an insane rate, but you couldn’t be happier. The two-for of getting pleasured while pleasuring is truly incredible. You’re nearly to the edge, and it’s only been three minutes max.

You feel Jake starting to roll over onto his side, so you get his dick out of your mouth and follow his lead. It takes some frantic readjusting —you are both drop-dead hormonal and need each other’s dicks in your mouths _right this instant_ — but you end up in a near-perfect Yin and Yang position. The narrow width of the couch forces you to be extremely close to him, your entire torso and pelvis pressing up near perfect to his, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, Jake clutching your ass so he can keep you close, his thick thighs pressed gently around your head and braced against the back of the couch so he won’t crush you. You get his dick in your mouth and deep throat it immediately. He does the same to you.

You undulate together, and fuck each others’ mouths, and make a whole lot of gasping and whimpering noises as you do so. You shut your eyes, to focus on the sounds and feelings of Jake. You are comfortably surrounded by his body, your perceptions completely overtaken by his skin and pelvis and dick and thighs and lips around your cock. He smells so human, a scent you can’t define but enjoy all the same, and instead of smoke your senses are overtaken by the heady flavor of sex. It is just as intoxicating as his starry dreams.

Despite not even making fucking eye contact with him, despite not even _kissing_ him, you haven’t felt this intimate during sex in a long while. You’d go so far as to call it making love. 

"I- I have something to say," you gasp, craning your neck way way back in order to free yourself of his dick.

Jake stops sucking your dick to reply to you, which you didn't think would be a consequence for some reason, and you're whining with want and trying to thrust your hips forward to find his mouth again. He grips your thighs so you can't move and shit, god, you're so oversensitive you can feel the vibrations of his voice. "Not now- not now, I'm- Dirk, I'm so close."

"Me too, me too sweetheart, but if I don't say it now I'm never gonna say it, I-," you take a shuddering breath, trying and failing to calm down, and focus hard on his dick bobbing in front of your face. "I can't- I- Jake, I love you, I think I’m in love with you."

Jake's response is so fucking quick that you can barely decipher it. Somehow, he manages it all in one single breath. "NoYouDon'tYouJustThinkYouAreBecauseYouHaven'tGottenAnyPoontangInAWeekAndYou'reFullToTheBrimWithManYogurtAndNeedToGetRidOfItAndYouCan'tBeInLoveWithMeYou'reJustInLoveWithTheIdeaOfMeYouDon'tEvenKnowWhoIAmAnymoreHellIDon'tKnowWhoIAmAnymoreAndShouldn'tWeGoOnAnOldFashionedDateFirstAndHnnNNNNNnnnNGGGHHDirkIDon'tCareShutUp."

You’re so hormonal you cannot process what either you or Jake just said, so you just get right back on each other’s dicks. You pick up where you left off, like there was never a pause. Going at each other with the ferocity of wild animals.

Jake finishes first. And he's bitter and tart but it might as well be the best thing you've ever tasted, because you're swallowing him like you're starving. Jake's mouth stills on you as he comes, and you're whining around him as you take him in because you're _so damn close._ The moment he's done you pull back and gasp, "Jake, please, please," because you're so fucking desperate.

He can't resume the pace fast enough, so you get yourself out from between his legs and brace yourself against the couch and reach down to hold his shoulders still and fuck into his mouth. Tension builds and comes to a head in record time. You come with a loud gasp, and squeeze your eyes shut as you enjoy the release. It’s incredible, everything that was pent up in the past week released through climax. Jake swallows it all, and when you’re done, you let him go and pull out. You flop down against the couch, shivering with aftershocks, your forehead pressed to Jake’s legs. You feel him panting against your oversensitive dick.

It is moments before reality begins to settle in. It comes over you like ice water, fills in the gargantuan gap in your soul where your arousal was. What have you done? You shouldn’t have fucked him. You really shouldn’t have. 

And even worse? You told him you loved him, you hormonal moron. You didn't mean it. Well, you meant it _at the time,_ but once the masculine energies are gone you know that being in-passion and being in-love are two very different things, and even Jake managed to catch that and call you out on it. Which is fucking embarrassing, considering that you're pretty sure Jake hasn't ever unconditionally/nonsexually loved anyone in his entire goddamn life.

The silence that you and Jake now share becomes less of a companionable post-sex glow and more of an awkward pause. You’re stuck in this proto-69 position and neither of you know what to do. You slowly, slowly, peel yourself away from him, sitting up and scooting to your side of the couch, and he does the same. You do not touch him. You glance over at him. He’s blinking at you like a deer caught in the headlights. His glasses are askew and covered in stains from your skin.

"You, uh," mutters Jake, pointing at the edge of his lips. "You got a little bit of a mess there..."

You press your hand against your face in the general area where he's gesturing, and proceed to accidentally smear come all over your cheek and into your sideburn. Great. Fantastic. You could have sworn you caught it all, but nope. Just fucking yourself over forever, that's you.

Your dignity is completely shattered. It's so shattered you can't even emote. Deadpan, you wipe your hand on your shirt, then take off your shirt, scrub your face and hair with it, dry off your goddamn dick with it, then chuck it at Jake so he can use it to clean up. You intend for him to catch it, but he's apparently lost in space because your cummy shirt hits him right in the face. Your dignity descends into the 9th circle of hell and is officially devoured by Satan himself. Instead of watching Jake peel off the come rag, you jump to your feet and grunt, "I'm getting water." You stomp off to the kitchen to grab a glass.

You chug down one ironic beer glass full of water, re-fill it, take a moment to rest your head against the counter and bemoan the direction this day has taken, and then head back to Jake. You thrust it into his hands, awkwardly, and stand over him as he drinks it. He looks unsure, watching you watching him drink water.

Maybe you do love him? Your family is right: you're going overboard with the helping thing, considering he was going to kill you. But Jake is also right in the way that you have no clue what's left of him. It'd be idiotic to be in love with him without knowing who he is. You're just enamored with him because he fascinates you, because he frightens you, because you went through a hell of a lot for an iteration of him and trauma does a number on interpersonal relations.

But… hell, you’ve fucked up so bad it can’t get worse, right? Might as well give it a shot.

"C'mon, let's go and..." You take a moment to sigh, tragically, and pinch the bridge of your nose. "... Snuggle in my bed."

Jake tilts his head inquisitively, but sets the glass aside and stands up with you.

You fully undress before climbing in bed together. Jake takes off his glasses, and you remove your socks and jeans and underwear, and you both find each other beneath the sheets. In his arms, your body throbs all over with vulnerability, and you think Jake feels the same way. You transition sweetly into kisses.

You press your lips to his cheek, temple, corner of his eyes, find his mouth again, repeat the process. He does the same to you. It's half healing and half shameful. It feels like you're getting back together with an ex that you shouldn't be getting back together with. Which is fucking stupid, since you've never dated Jake, and have literally only known him for like a week and a half. God, you can’t believe you told him you loved him, that’s so goddamn lame.

He pulls away to stare at you. To brush your bangs out of your eyes, look at you all curious with those big green peepers.

"I wish I knew what you were thinking in that big old maze of yours," he says, wistfully.

"Sorry. Guess you'll just have to ask," you say, with a voice gentler than you intended. "You know. Like a normal person."

He frowns. "Will you be able to give me a clear answer?"

You take a moment to figure out a truthful response to that. "I'll give it a shot. No guarantees though."

"Okay. What are you thinking?"

You take a moment to collect your spiraling, cyclical inner monologue together to try to form a coherent answer. It's not as hard as usual-- you're loose and relaxed after sex.

"I shouldn't be doing this," you say, direct. "I shouldn’t have fucked you. I shouldn't even be helping you. I don't know how much of you is still balls-to-the-wall crazy. I don’t even know who you really are, dude. I shouldn’t be enjoying your company like this."

Jake blinks at you, slowly, and laces your fingers in his. It’s so sweet and gentle, you feel like you’re melting. Jake glances down, his thick eyelashes curling beautifully. “If it’s any consolation I feel the same way. About myself, that is. I really should have said no to you! I’m so very scared I’m going to hurt you after all you’ve done for me! That would just be the pits, wouldn’t it? You do all these nice things for me and get all my shit together and then I space out and accidentally choke you to death while romping beneath the sheets.”

You shift forward on the pillows and press your forehead against his. “It’s cool babe, I’m not into breathplay. The important question to ask yourself here is: would you feel at fault for that, if you unintentionally choked me to death?”

“Yes, of course,” he stammers, and pulls away. He didn’t sound committed, he sounded like he was trying to lie to himself. You wait for him. He glances away from you. Quietly, like he’s ashamed of the fact, he says, “Actually, honestly, truly… I don’t have enough faith in myself to trust I’d be on top of the empathic side of things. But I really hope I would! I really really hope I would.” 

You remember him sobbing in your shower a week ago, and hug him tighter. “I think you would.”

“Still, that really doesn’t set my mind at ease,” he mutters. “I’m scared of overpowering you and hurting you…”

You scoff at him. “You? Overpowering me physically without your weapons? Bring it.”

And that's how you end up outside, in the nearest park, at 9pm, wearing your yoga outfit and wrestling Jake to the grass. He doesn't try at first, like he's afraid of hurting you with a strength he doesn't have, but after you knock him over and fake-punch him again and again, he starts actually _trying_ to hit you. The last time you win, when he's giving it his all, he's in tears that he can't beat you. You get one hell of a power high, and when you get back to your apartment you ride him cowgirl style in your bed for the ultimate victory lap. And after you clean up together in the second post-sex bliss of the day, you don't have it in you to boot him to the couch. You at least have it in you to text Rose about it.

I'm having him sleep in my bed.  
I'll text you if I die horribly.  
Dirk, you're an idiot.

You don't die horribly. He makes you breakfast in the morning. Eggs over easy, and cucumbers and tomatoes all diced up, and coffee boiled in a saucepan. The coffee is fucking _stellar,_ like out of this world, didn’t-know-coffee-could-taste-that-good stellar. You immediately make a deal that he’ll do all the cooking and you do all the grocery purchasing from now on.

Personal boundaries re-demolished, you do all your morning activities together. You notice that he keeps nicking himself with a razor and comment on it, and he asks you what you did with a certain knife of his. You bring it to him. You stand by the sink and watch, awestruck, mouth gaping, as Jake shaves his whole fucking face with what you later learn is a custom made miniature bush machete. You're not sure how you feel about him keeping a giant knife in the medicine cabinet, but you keep swords in the fridge so, glass houses. 

Later, much much _much_ later when you _really_ trust him, he ends up shaving _you_ with it. You’ll be the one to suggest it, because you think it'd be romantic. It will be.

In the coming weeks, you will take him out to a dim sum place because you will learn he misses the taste of bones, and you will order him phoenix talons. You will watch him, worried as all hell, as he’ll actually try to eat the shitty boney middle of the chicken feet. But he will give up halfway through the dish and bemoan the fact that the taste isn’t nearly as good. You will experiment with cuisine and will find out that rich bone marrow broth satisfies his tastes, and no humans will be harmed in the making. 

You will bribe a corrupt data architect in the DMV to forge Jake an identity, so he can get a goddamn job. You will encourage him to find one, but it will take him a very long time, so you will end up including him on your health insurance because you’re one pragmatic fuck. He will make enough money doing weird Internet things like selling fucking “bear panties,” and you will attempt to help out his photograph game by artfully posing your puppet creations around him. He will resist this, for some reason.

Rose will come over and take notes and talk to Jake, and while she does that you will get brave enough to try and utilize your autoresponder again. You will find out that in a last act of self-spite, your autoresponder replaced itself with an ineffably awful custom version of Cortana. Your code will still be there, but your endpoints will be rerouted through Microsoft’s proprietary APIs so everything you command gets garbled through Bing and Bing Maps and shit and ends up 50% worse than normal. When Jake will talk to Rose, you will work on getting your autoresponder back to normal, but you will keep the sweet sweet voice of Jen Taylor narrating everything.

He will never snap, nor will you feel like you are in danger, although you will sometimes feel afraid but it will only be due to hyping your own self up with your cyclical thoughts as opposed to anything real. Jake will often be afraid of himself, but it will get better. You will come to like him much, much better as a human. And Jake will come to like himself much, much better as a human too. And you will, eventually, learn that Jake has changed for the better, that you really did save him. And Jake will learn how to move on while reflecting on the past, and he will learn how to grow from it.

You will lie on your stomach on your bed and Jake will dip a reed pen in a pot of skin-safe ink and he will scrawl calligraphy all across your back for hours at a time, and then you will make love because you’ve been made into putty despite the inability to comprehend what he writes. He will say he’s not very good at poetry anymore, but your Arabic won’t get any better so you will not be able to read it, and you won’t believe it anyway. He will always take a picture of it every time, at your request, and one day even further in the future you will go through the effort of translating it all.

He will grow strong enough to go through his stuff, and he will tell you stories about some of the weirder things he kept, and you will be surprised that many of his memories are genuinely happy and funny and entertaining. You will ask him to put on his old folk costumes because you want to see him glow. You will love how he looks and you will tell him so, sitting on your bed and watching him twirl around in long draping fabrics. You make him laugh by telling him with your best Indiana Jones impression, "That belongs in a museum." But you'll only be half-joking.

You will move into a two-bedroom apartment because you both will want space to store your egregious amounts of shit, and Jake will decorate it because you will find out that your taste in decor is mutually horrendous. And he will make some new friends and your family will come to visit and he’ll be alright. And so will you.

But all that will come later.

Right now, that first day he makes you breakfast, you go to work, do your job, and you actually look forward to coming home. He makes you this straight up baller salad for dinner, like tomatoes and chickpeas and pine nuts and peppers and cheese and some kind of oily dressing, and you scarf it down and talk about how the fuck he learned to cook considering his tastes. He gives you a flat look and says, “I eat normal food too, you know. Also I’ve had like a bazillion years of practice?” Apparently he’s especially good at making cheese and alcohol (”What kind of alcohol?” “Any alcohol”). You make a mental note to get him a kit and test out how good he is.

You chill out with him that night. He’s still pretty bummed out, and you don’t blame him, so you’re going to let him watch whatever the fuck he wants. He picks out _Casablanca,_ and you sit on your couch with his head on your shoulder and your fingers threading through his soft hair. He knows all the famous one liners by heart and mouths along with them, and you watch his lips move in the flickering gray light from your television.

You've got to admit, it's a pretty good movie.

_END_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading BONES OF BLACK MARROW, everyone. Did you like it? Did you learn anything? What was your favorite scene? Least favorite? Personally, my favorite part is that I never have to update this 2,617 line fic stylesheet ever again.
> 
> I don't have a big end-of-fic gallery for this story, but I shall share what I have! Let me know if you make anything, I shit myself over fanworks of any kind.
> 
>  **DVD EXTRAS**  
>  Fic FST [[spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4nrK1HLmzSJwKtUq1Mq78t)] [[stayed up all night playlist](http://suan.fm/mix/Hkh-9NB7N)] [[cover art](http://oxfordroulette.tumblr.com/post/182231249352/okay-i-know-i-said-that-if-i-made-an-fst-of-bones)]  
> [I have lots of promo art and some questions on my tumblr for this fic!](http://oxfordroulette.tumblr.com/tagged/BONES-OF-BLACK-MARROW)
> 
>  
> 
> **FANWORKS**  
> [Some gorgeous headshots from the somnophilia part](http://thedoublepp.tumblr.com/post/176864705006/hi-been-a-while-anyways-im-absolutely-in-love)  
> [A beautifully dark profile shot of Jake](http://kiyye.tumblr.com/post/181183391758/just-a-doodle-of-oxfordroulettes-bones-of-black)
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, that’s all the fic ideas I have. Will I write any more Homestuck? I dunno. Although in my fervent post-Homestuck quest to make Creepy Death Obsessed Jake a thing you might catch me spinning the dumbasss au wheel and writing, idk, uh…… machiavellian…………… musical………… pirate adventures or something horribly inane like that. Thank you again for reading.


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